


36 Hours to Kill

by MsMockingbird



Series: The Mockingverse [2]
Category: Avengers (Comics), Hawkeye (Comics), Mockingbird (Marvel) - Fandom, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, First Meeting, Implied/Referenced Torture, Love at First Sight, On the Run, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-11 20:07:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 33,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4450490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsMockingbird/pseuds/MsMockingbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawkeye Meets Mockingbird. Hawkeye and Mockingbird run away together. Hawkeye and Mockingbird nearly get killed a whole bunch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hours 1-4: Barton, You Idiot!

**Author's Note:**

> This is set between "Mockingbird: The Wilderness Years" and "12 Days of Barton".
> 
> My own headcannon, with nods to Marvel 616 continuity, Marvel MCU and Agents of Shield. In this universe, Ultron hasn't happened.

"Barton?"  
   
The blond woman set up to clock him one said his name incredulously, intimately, as though she knew him. For a moment he felt a surge of fear: had Cross hired one of his ex-girlfriends as a guard?  
   
But no, he'd remember her: big, strong, all muscle and golden hair and impressive chest. This woman had been sneaking around, at best she was a thief.  
   
Still could be one of his exs, from a one night stand a long time gone. She hit like a damn train wreck; his stomach felt like he'd been toe to toe with Thor.  
   
He tucked his knees up, under her armpits and heaved her off. She rolled in mid air, landed silently and spun towards him, graceful as Natasha, strong and smooth as a Steve. Despite himself, Clint grinned with pleasure. They came at each other almost playfully, striking and punching as though testing one another on a sparring mat. She kicked less than Black Widow, mostly low direct strikes to his shins and legs. She relied on speed and accuracy and she hit hard when she landed something. After a few connections hurt him he started to use his superior targeting to intercept her punches, snapping his knuckles into her forearms. The third time he landed one she laughed, a big happy surprised noise, shaking her numbed arm as she faded back.  
   
Then she reached down to pull out a pair of combat batons out of her thigh holsters.  
   
Memory surfaced, from his SHIELD days, rumors without a face...a female agent who specialized in stick-fighting. Big, blond--  
   
The woman in front of him was smiling now, big toothy grin that made him want to suck on her lower lip and shit he was getting an erection...  
   
"Sorry, sport, I concede. Gotta go to the big 'guns' so to speak. I apologize for your imminent headache."  
   
She raised her weapons and he felt another surge of emotion: fear. She moved like she was going to cream him and they both knew it.    
   
Then an alarm went off and they heard the sound of running feet. She cursed lavishly and stowed her batons again. She stepped forward and gestured at his hand.  
   
"Punch me!" she ordered.  
   
He understood instantly. She wanted him to punch her so he would look like he'd subdued her in front of the security forces converging on them. She was willing to take a hit to get him into the clear.  
   
It was the way really good agents thought.  
   
His fist slammed into her jaw with calculated force--he could have smashed it to pulp pretty easily--and she fell backwards, reeling...directly into the pack of Crosstech security guards who came baying around the corner. Followed by Cross himself, looking urbane and unruffled. Outside of his office the tall man seemed less civil, more dangerous. He'd taken off his coat and Clint could see he was built like a man who worked out, took care of himself. His thinning dark hair had white streaks in it in this light.  
   
"Mr. Barton? What's going on here?" Cross asked, glancing from him to the woman, now being held  by his guards and bleeding lavishly from the mouth.  
   
"I spotted someone climbing in one of your windows as I was leaving and went to take a look, found her," Clint gestured at the captive.  
   
"You didn't think to, oh, I don't know, call one of the security guards and tell him?" Cross said with a Spock-worthy eyebrow raise.  
   
Clint let a look of incredulous embarrassment settle on his face. "No. No I totally didn't. Oh, man, I am such an idiot. This isn't the Tower! I'm sorry, Mr. Cross. I'm so damned used to handling everything in house...but this is your house. Not mine."  
   
Cross laughed but it didn't reach past his mouth. His eyes were grey and cold like frozen metal. The blond woman had blue-grey eyes, Clint's brain supplied, bright and clear and fearsomely intelligent. She was looking at him now, side-ways, through a fall of her golden hair, nodding just a little. She approved of his play-acting.  
   
"Well, thank you anyway, Mr. Barton. I'll have security take her to my office and we'll call the police. IP theft, I'm sure, with that equipment. You have a good night."  
   
That was a pretty clear dismissal and Clint took it on face, nodding and exiting the building post haste. This time he was followed, discretely, by two of the security guards until he was at his (Tony's) car and out the front gates. He drove off towards the highway without looking back.  
   
Then he circled around after a few blocks, parked the car, strapped the compact case holding his bow and tac suit to his back and trotted back to the Crosstech complex. He found a wall section he remembered would be at a blind spot and casually climbed it, avoiding the barbed wire and electrical fence top like it wasn't there. In his eyes, it wasn't; he dodged lasers for a living. Landing near the out building where he'd "met" the thief who fought like an Avenger, thought like an agent and seemed to know him (outside of the way people knew him in the media these days) he settled in to watch.  
   
No police officers ever arrived. He waited for an hour, getting changed and slinging his gear into ready position, flicking his phone onto "emergency scanner" mode and pressing in his ear bud as soon as he was settled. No dispatcher called out their obscure lingo and the Crosstech address. No cars, marked or unmarked, pulled up.  
   
Satisfied that situation was definitely hinkey, Clint tucked his phone away after hitting the "interference" app that would mess with surveillance cameras near him and broke back into the target building.  
   
Not for even a moment did it occur to him to call the other Avengers. Something deep in his heart, reflected in grey-blue and gold, blocked the thought. This was his problem. _She_ was his problem.  
   
He found where they had scuffled, a fond smile bending his mouth. It had almost felt like a game, those swift exchanges, like an intense one-on-one session on the courts. He followed the drag marks, the spots of blood, moving like a ghost. The warehouse was creepily quiet: he would have expected some guards, something. More than once during the tour he'd just taken Clint had gotten the feeling he was being fed a very sophisticated shuck-and-jive, that Crosstech was no where near as lively and bustling as its master wanted him to think. He just couldn't figure out what the end game was. He saw the same workers a few times, doing different "jobs" around the place--people never realized just how keen his eyes were.  
   
So when the trail of blood spots and shoe leather ended at a blank wall it didn't really phase him. He tapped the edge closest to the floor, feeling a tiny give. He had massive callouses on his thumbs and arrow fingers of both hands but the rest  were supremely sensitive.  
   
He looked around. There had to be some sort of trigger around here...nothing. No convenient red buttons or levers. He pulled out his phone and hit the direct line for JARVIS.  
   
"Hawkeye, how might I assist you?" the AI said in that plummy smooth voice of 'his'.  
   
"Jarvis, I'm standing in front of a secret door. Can you open it for me?" Clint held the phone out to the wall. There was a soft 'beep' and the wall slide back and to the side. "You're a magic man, thank you."  
   
"Of course. Shall I advise Capta--"  
   
"No." The word burst out of him without thought. No way did he want tall, angelic, perfect, perfectly annoying Steve Rogers near this situation. Near _her_. "No, thanks, Jarvis. This is just a lark, I'll be fine. You leave everyone be up there; they don't need to trek into Newark for this."  
   
"Of course, sir," the AI responded placidly. Hawkeye thanked him again (everyone was extra polite to Jarvis for some reason, as though the accent brought out the civility in all of them) and hung up.  
   
The secret door revealed a stairway, long but shallow, descending into darkness. He went down it fast, hugging the wall; it let out into an unused rectangular control room with banks of computers and screens and a few desks. Three doors were set along one long wall; the tracks lead to the far right one.  The drop ceiling was tiled with the usual ugly foamy squares. Hawkeye tried all three doors: locked. Standing on a desk close to the wall, he pushed one of the ceiling panels up and did a pull up by grabbing the nearest cross bar. It looked really solid and he could feel it bearing his weight no problem so he climbed into the super structure and made his way to a vent in the nearby wall. A little squirming and he was through into the ceiling of the corridor. He debated dropping back down but decided to stay where he was, sacrificing speed for secrecy.  
   
He could hear voices now, echoing from below him and ahead , muffled but angry. Well, a voice, a man--Cross probably. He crept closer, listening intently.  
   
"Who sent you? Who?" and then the sound of...crumpling paper? Then the question again. By now he was close enough to hear a woman's voice, low and strained but dripping with contempt. The crumpling paper sound came again and his blood chilled. That was an electrical current being applied to a human body.  
   
He lifted up a corner of the ceiling tile just in front of him. Still corridor, but he glimpsed a pair of guards on the door directly in front of him. From behind the door, Cross shouted his questions again and now the response was just clear enough for him to hear.  
   
"No one! No one sent me you lunatic! I'm a thief, I admit it! I'll plead guilty. Stop hurting me!" No longer contemptuous: frightened. In pain.  
   
Every fibre of his being said assault these dudes and break down the door and rescue the princess. Every ounce of experience told him that would be noisy, time-consuming and result in him being shot as he came through the door. So he kept creeping along the rafters, cringing and tensing the two more times the exchange occurred.  
   
By the time Cross's yelling started up again, he was directly above the sound. So before the second half of the noise cycled through, Hawkeye punched out the nearest tile and dropped down into the room.  
   
The blond woman in the black and white suit was slumped in a chair, hands behind her (cuffed, he assumed) with a dead-eyed woman in a lab coat about to press some sort of device to her neck. Cross was standing in front of her, his hands clenched, his face bright red. Hawkeye was in a large round room with more computers and screens along two walls -- the main wall was all glass and seemed to look out onto a large gym? A lab? A big room with metal walls, littered with equipment, at least one floor down from where he was.  
   
"What the fuck?" Cross snarled, turning towards him. Hawkeye picked up one of the slim metal chairs at the nearby conference table and hit him with it. He was actually too angry to shoot him. Cross went flying and Hawkeye threw the chair at the woman, knocking her back from the prisoner. Darting over to the blond, Hawkeye hauled her up. She was handcuffed (old style metal ones), but free otherwise.  
   
"No, no," she mumbled, still bleeding from the mouth where he'd punched her. Her jaw was slack and eyes muzzy and there were several raw burned patches on the sides of her neck. She was in no condition to fight.  
   
Reaching down, Hawkeye grabbed the chain of her cuffs and snapped them with one savage  motion. He really did have fearsomely strong hands. Then he wrapped an arm around her and pulled her towards the door. Cross popped to his feet in front of them, hand raised.  
   
The blond woman pushed off Hawkeye hard enough to stagger him and punched Cross in the jaw with such perfect precision and power Hawkeye _saw_ his eyes roll back into his head as he fell.  
   
Well, all right, she clearly could still fight.  
   
Hawkeye kicked open the door and laid out the guard on the left with a rabbit punch to the liver before he could react. As he turned to the other guard, he had time to see the woman snap the butt end of one of those metal batons--her gear must have been on a table near the door--into the man's throat. He went down, clutching his neck. The two blonds went down the short corridor neck and neck, despite the woman's occasional stagger and gasp. She lurched sideways into him at one point and he grabbed her around the waist. 

"Nnnn.....no. Not now," she muttered, shaking him off. 

He glanced at her sharply, offended. What kind of animal did she think he was? 

The far door opened towards and they tumbled into the disused control room just as a loud alarm started blaring from behind them. It seemed to give the woman new strength; she bolted for the stairs and took them two at a time. Hawkeye followed just behind her, hands up in case she fell. At the top of the stairs she paused, trembling. 

"Guard shack is left; go right and be chased or towards'em and go through? " she asked him. "I say left. Rather hit than run." 

"Left," he agreed, firmly, again liking the way she thought. Without talking about it further, he took point, his bow unslung and arrows in his fist; she came behind him, head on a swivel. They were almost out of the building when the first wave of guards hit them. They hit back. 

Hawkeye took out three with one shot and then dove in hand to hand, the cramped quarters making his bow less effective than his hands. He was aware, peripherally, that she was stuck to his back like glue, despite the injuries and aftermath of being tortured. When he moved, she moved almost in the same breath, never in his way, always protecting his blind side. Armed men went down under her batons, her feet, her hands. He saw her head butt one man hard enough to pulp his nose and then use the momentum of his falling body back to forward flip into two more, scything them down with her combat boots. She hit her feet, snapped her batons into a staff and braced it over her shoulders, spinning to cut down four more guards with the ends before surging back to cover him. 

He felt a huge-shit eating grin burst onto his face. This woman was the most impressive thing he'd seen since he'd watched Thor chug a liter of Fireball without stopping. 

Hawkeye opened his mouth to say something witty and smooth and just a little bit sex-- 

The blond woman knocked him down with single push kick to the chest. 

Under the surge of  shock as he fell he felt the air in front of his face--where his head had been--split by the pressure wave of a bullet, then the rifle crack following after. Hawkeye rolled over one shoulder, came up on one knee, found the shooter on a gantry above. Cross, shoulders moving as he squeezed off a second shot. 

"Oooof," was the only sound she made but he knew the bullet had hit her. She sprawled forward, motionless at his feet. 

Rage slammed through him, such as he'd seldom felt, not since Vilnius and Natasha and the human traffickers . Without thought, his bow was out and he had fired an arrow directly at Cross, with lethal intent. But the tall man had already been scrambling back so the arrow hit him in the side, prompting a bellow of rage and pain. 

Hawkeye slung his bow and scooped her into his arms as though she was a stuffed toy, though he could feel she was a mass of sturdy muscle against his chest. Glancing down, he saw no blood, which was heartening. Head down, legs hammering, Hawkeye sprinted through the crowd of thugs as though they were standing still. Outside the door he deked to the right instantly, getting them out of line of sight. Finding a sheltered corner between and door and a dumpster, he set the blond woman down, hands patting at her anxiously. 

She slapped him off, gasping. "Hit me in the back, in the body armour. Just winded." 

"Bullshit. That bullet would have gone through armour like butter." 

"Super-Kevlar, Barton. Seriously, I'm just winded." 

"No one had super-Kevlar but...you were SHIELD?" His voice went ice cold. "Or HYDRA?" 

"SHIELD. I was Fury's little darling. Agent 19, Hawkeye. Level 8." 

Agent 19. The mysterious loner of the Special Section. The strat/tac analyst legend. The one who never made a mistake; the agent who could be anyone or anything needed to get the job done. 

He stared at her, not trusting her but...he did actually. Gods help him, he trusted this whirlwind bundle of violence and chaos that had exploded into his life. 

"Come on, I have a car," he started off towards the wall. 

She didn't follow him. He looked back, seeing her standing, her head down like a whipped dog. "Hey, come on," he cajoled her. 

The sounds of pursuit were cycling back towards them and she snarled suddenly, hopping past him. 

"Barton, you idiot! You wrecked EVERYTHING," she snarled. 

"What the--?" he muttered at her back. They made it to the wall and were up and over it in a breath, him boosting her and her anchoring for him. Dropping down the other side, he lead her towards his parked vehicle. In sight of the sedan, he realized she had stopped at the edge of the alley and _turned around to go back?_

He charged to her side, grabbing her arm. She froze and looked at him like he was something she'd scraped off her shoe and not the guy who'd rescued her. "Get. Your. Hand. Off. Me. You interfering, irresponsible...I almost had it ! Cross brought me to the damn computers!  He was almost ready to give up on me ! Once he relaxed, I could have taken him down and got the data...gods damn it, Barton you ruined my fucking life with your stupid, dramatic heroics!" She shook his hand off hard, as he stared at her open-mouthed and stunned. "Maybe he'll be so distracted now I'll be able to break back in but I've got maybe an hour. Maybe! Gods, he's probably already erased everything." 

And to Hawkeye's breath-stealing shock she sagged back into the wall of the alley and started to cry, deep, hurting sobs of pure despair. 

Awash in shame, guilt (why or what for he didn't know) and more than a little anger (a simple 'thank you for saving my life' would have been okay) Hawkeye was almost grateful when his car exploded.  
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
 


	2. Hours 5-8: Well, That Was Efficient

The pressure wave from the explosion struck, heat and light, and Clint found himself diving forward--  
   
\--to collide with the blond woman as she dove forward too.  
   
They had both instinctively leapt to cover the other person, bumping heads and falling in a tangled heap onto the filthy alley cement. It probably saved their lives as burning metal shrapnel shredded the air around them. Clint felt something go through his right jacket arm, clean through the muscle, a sharp hard pain and a sharp hard fear that always came when his arms or hands took damage. But he could still flex his fingers and move his shoulder so he ignored it.  
   
The woman cursed and when she rolled towards him on the ground there was fresh blood on her throat: a long slash had opened up on one side, bleeding heavily. Clint reached out his hand, still prone, his face horrified. She slapped it away.  
   
"Flesh wound, flesh wound." She pointed into the air behind them, towards the street. "Drone!"  
   
They scrambled up together and Clint turned to see the hightly weaponized, unbelievably illegal drone spin in the air above his car. It seemed to search, then found them and moved in their direction. The woman grabbed his arm. "I have a bike, come on!"  
   
Sprinting back down the alley, Clint and the woman--Mockingbird, Mockingbird, that had been her code name--heard the drone's engines whine and surge behind them. Clint flinched, expecting another explosion at his feet, being flung into the air, bleeding and broken and he'd just met this woman...  
   
Odd, for that to be his last thought.  
   
Mockingbird, in front of him, skidded to a kick turn against one wall of the alley and charged back towards him. He spun out of her way as though they'd planned it, letting the other wall kill his momentum and watched her use a wooden crate for height to leap towards the drone. She ran up the wall, one, two, three, four steps, like she could fly and then she was mid-air, those metal batons flashing in her hands and the drone was done, shattered like glass, chunks of metal and plastic raining down around him. She landed as light as Natasha, blood still streaming down her neck, her face cool and calm.  
   
He tired to mimic her expression but there was no way he could stop the foolish smile that burst out. To his surprise she returned it, just as happy and twice as proud.  
   
Then, over the sounds of metal popping and burning (his car! well, Tony's car!), they heard more drone engines.  
   
"Bike that-a-way?" he said, pointing across the far street to where he could see a very sleek and powerful looking motorcycle stashed behind another dumpster.  
   
"Yeah."  
   
They dashed across the open space like mice at a rattlesnake convention. She slide onto the front and Hawkeye took pillion automatically. She turned to look at him a moment, her face faintly surprised, he had no idea why. Oh, maybe--  
   
"Is the bow going to get in your way?" It was slung around his back as usual, but it extended a ways from his body.  
   
"No, no it's fine. Where do you want me to drop you?"  
   
"Drop me? I'm going with you."  
   
"Sport, you really aren't." She said it flatly, without rancor but with out compromise either.  
   
He got set to argue and she pretty clearly got set to shove him off the bike when four--count'em four--of the killer drones descended on the street. She cursed and kicked the bike into a squealing start. The acceleration nearly punched him off; he had to grab her around the waist ungently.  Hawkeye leaned in and yelled in her ear "This blatant disregard for safety is un-American, lady!"  
   
She laughed, seeming surprised by it. "Well, just try to land on your head, nothing in there to hurt!"  
   
"I've heard that before, you can do better than that."  
   
She laughed again, accelerating down the thankfully empty street like it was the autobahn, managing to outpace the drones for the moment. They fell behind further as she zipped them into several swifts turns, the streets devoid of life other than very startled pigeons. It was later than he had thought, warm summer twilight now dark, pools of orange-tinted street light flashing over them like a strobe. Hawkeye found it was easy to match her, their bodies moving as one with each subtle motion. She drove the bike like he would have, to the precise degree of lean and the reckless, joyful speed. She drove like a woman with passion; she fought like an Avenger.  
   
Why the living FUCK had he never met her before? Fury had leaned on Agent 19 like no one but Coulson; once she had taken over the strategy/tactics briefings the Special Section clear rate had gone up  thirty five percent. The agent injury rate had gone down _sixty_. Then she vanished and they were back to the old "well, let's hope this next inevitable ambush doesn't kill us!" method. He remembered, vaguely, Natasha saying something about Agent 19 going rogue? Maybe that's why she'd taken up industrial theft...but what she'd said to him earlier...she'd had some deeper plan. She'd been at Cross Enterprises for a reason, more than the surface.  
   
She was there on an op. And he'd barreled right in like a runaway train because hot tough fighter woman. Once he'd shown up to "rescue" her she had to  go along with it or blow her cover.  
   
Hawkeye's soul cringed. She probably hated his guts right now.  
   
"Motherfucker!" she yelled and he jerked, thinking she was talking about him. "We picked up a tail."  
   
He looked back to see three other bikes behind them, big powerful Harley-type, swiftly catching them.  The riders were all men, in black uniforms and--a shot whipped past his head, the noise lost in speed and distance--armed.  
   
"Can you drive?" Mockingbird screamed.  
   
"Yes!" He shrieked back, then set his feet just behind hers on the pedals.  
   
"One, two--hyup!" She launched herself straight up, still gripping the handles. Hawkeye skipped down into the drivers position, jammed the pedals down and steadied the front wheel. She was balanced in a hand-stand on the handle bars, her ponytail hanging down, her face so close his he could have kissed her just by pursing his lips.  
   
Her eyes were manic-bright and he found himself laughing with her, at the absurdity and sheer pleasure of being this good at something this stupid dangerous. Then she had peeled down over his head to stand on the back of the bike, just as the leading pursuer caught up, leveling a hand-gun at Hawkeye point blank.  
   
He felt not an ounce of fear or even concern, just holding the bike steady for whatever she had planned.  
   
Mockingbird leapt across the space between the two motorcycles like something from a dream, almost floating in the rear view mirror. She kneed the gun off line as he fired, the bullet taking out a street light, then speared that same knee into the full face helmet of the man. It cracked like pottery and his bike wobbled and slide sideways with him under it--  
   
\--she was already gone, those batons of hers transformed again into a long staff. She pole vaulted from the back of the bike onto the next one, sweeping the end of the pole around as she landed to un seat the third man, his bike collapsing and skidding in a spray of sparks. She kicked the handle of the last bike out of line, sending it careening headlong into a wall in a crashing rain of metal. Then she was behind him on their bike, arm wrapped around his neck as she collapsed and stowed the batons again.  
   
"That was very efficient!" Hawkeye yelled.  
   
"Have staff, will kick ass!" she laughed in his ear.  
   
That was when the drones found them again. An empty cement planter in front of a deserted store front exploded, making Hawkeye serve hard and spin the bike in a smoking circle then leap forward like it had been goosed.  
   
"Hawkeye!" she yelled in his ear and her hand appeared in his field of view, holding a mesh bag of marbles. She WAS ex-SHIELD. That was a trick of Natasha's that a lot of field agents had picked up: cheap, simple and useful for jamming doors, causing small noises and making hallways a hazardous mess.  
   
"Switch!" he called and jumped up. She slide through his legs and took control. He stood over her, one leg on either side of her body, facing behind them. She leaned into him, providing a solid spot for him to brace himself.  
   
Hawkeye took four marbles out of the bag and held them in his right hand.  
   
The speed and motion of the bike, the warm solid weight of her against his leg, the rushing air, the pain of his arm wound...it all fell away. Clint Barton faded into the  background of his mind and Hawkeye was alone, his focus extending to the tips of his extremities, nothing left but the marksman. He felt the marbles in his fingers with perfect understanding, heavy glass with roughened surfaces, swirls of color flashing in the uncertain light. He saw the drones gaining on them--black, sleek and deadly--as stationary points, fixed targets against a blur.  
   
He was the calm still eye of the storm, the breath before the plunge from the great height, the pause in the dance...the moment of entry, braced above a beautiful woman, the taste and smell of her like wine in his mouth, her blond hair spilled like molten gold across his bed...  
   
Oh, that was interesting. His dream woman's hair used to be red.  
   
He did not decide to throw the marbles. The universe aligned around his arm and he could not stop their flight. They left his grip like bright bullets, his nimble powerful fingers spinning them as he threw.  
   
Seconds later, they were no longer pursued: the drones fell from the sky each with a single hole punched cleanly through their bodies, as though with a drill.  
   
Hawkeye sat back down on the bike, burying his head in Mockingbird's shoulder, breathing hard as the adrenaline slammed through his body again.  
   
"That was very efficient!" she called to him.  
   
"Have arm, will target," he said back.  
   
She took a hard right and he realized she was headed east, towards Manhattan. A few dozen blocks with no pursuit and she slowed to a stop. "You should be safe here. Gimme a minute to get clear and then call home." She looked back over her shoulder at him, her face already remote again.  
   
"Very funny," he said, shaking his head. "I'm not going anywhere." 

She turned half towards him, her eyes narrowed. "You've fucked up my life quite enough, Barton. Be a good boy and get off my bike."  
   
"If I get off I can't help you get whatever it was you needed from Cross," he pointed out in a reasonable voice.  
   
"None of your beeswax what I want from Cross. If it's even still there. If it's not...I'm not dragging you into this mess, sport."  
   
"I'm dragging myself, Mockingbird." He leaned back. "What the hell was your name anyway?"  
   
"Oh!" She stared at him with a weird expression on her face. Hurt? Angry?  "No, no of course you wouldn't know...I'm Bobbi. Bobbi Morse. Nice to meet you. _Get off my bike._ "  
   
"Nah, I'm having fun," he said in a bland voice. "You know how to show a guy a good time."  
   
"I'm going to show you the business end of my staff if you don't get off the fucking bike, Barton."  
   
"I'm already on the date with you, honey, you don't have to persuade me any more."  
   
The expression on her face was now an exact match to the way Steve looked at him about forty five percent of the time. He fought the urge to giggle.  
   
"You have five seconds to get off my bike Barton or I will--"  
   
Her threat remained forever un-delivered.  
   
 Two large black SUVs screeched around the corners, boxing them in, and disgorged a small horde of armed thugs within about fifteen feet of them. Again in perfect sync they abandoned the bike and sprinted to the nearest doorway. A gun appeared in her hand and the door knob was gone. They barreled into a dimly lit warehouse lined with neat if dusty shelves of boxes. They separated, each picking a different lane. She shot out lights as she ran; he used the rest of the marbles to do the same on his side. The thugs came through the door behind them in a clump and stopped, regrouping and holding at the door, covering each other.  
   
Damn. Professionals.  
   
At the far end of the warehouse the rows were broken up by a packing area, littered with pallets of cardboard and piles of widgets and gizmos in bundles and bunches.  
   
Mockingbird came panting up next to Hawkeye, in the poor concealment of sorting table. "No other exits, that HAS to be a fire code violation, I'm going to report these guys so hard." She sounded utterly sincere but he caught the wicked gleam in her eyes in the last  flicker of light from the far door. She dragged a pair of tinted oval goggles out of her inner jacket and snapped them on. As they came up to her face he saw a faint HUD on the inner lenses. They could hear the thugs talking swiftly, then moving towards them in cautious formation.  
   
One of them shut the door, plunging the building into darkness.  
   
"They're wearing night vision,"  Mockingbird muttered. "I'm out of bullets."  
   
"If they make noise, I can hit them but if they get smart and rush we're in trouble."  
   
"We need to find a wall to fight against. I can lead you"  
   
"Hey," Hawkeye whispered. "You have infrared targeting on those glasses? Pass'em here and we're fine."  
   
"Can't. Biometrics, only lights up the displays for me."  
   
"Damn." Hawkeye touched the inner pocket of his tac suit, where his ID card rested. He should call the Avengers. Hell, he should call 911. But if he did that--she'd lose whatever it was in Cross' compound she needed, that seemed so important to her. He'd heard the edge of desperation in her voice earlier.  
   
But that was still better than dying and Stark had resources. He--they--could help her.  
   
His hand was on the Velcro when she made a startled noise.  
   
"What?"  
   
"Hawkeye, have you ever played 'Battleship'?" Her rich, throaty voice had a rising note of hope, of mischief. "This place is a grid."  
   
"Well, shit." Again, he was struck by how swift and mobile her mind was. "Ten by ten, A1 top left." He stood up and freed his quiver, taking three arrows in each hand and making sure the others were loose and ready. "How many are there?"  
   
She paused. "Twenty five. More must have pulled in after the first two cars."  
   
"Call it in groups of three, closest first."  
   
"That'll leave a spare," she laughed behind him, also on her feet.  
   
"Leaving one for the lady is good manners."  
   
She snorted. "How tall are you? I want to readjust the display for your eye level."  
   
He told her, then faced back towards the black of the room. He could hear scraping and mutters and target at least a dozen figures that way. But he waited for her, like a good team mate. He heard her breathe out as he did.  
   
They slide into sync with one another effortlessly, as though they had been doing this their whole lives. Her voice sounded in his head like a stereo headset.  
   
"I-4, J-5, E-5..."  
   
The arrows were gone before the words were done and she went straight on to the next set as the thud of bodies falling echoed . Hawkeye drew and released, his arms mechanical, his mind the void of perfect targeting.  
   
Twelve seconds later, the far door of the warehouse was flung open and a single panicked figure ran screaming into the night. They heard a car engine grind and then catch and peel away.  
   
In the weak light that seemed bright as day now, Hawkeye and Mockingbird turned towards each other and spoke in unison.  
   
"Well, that was efficient." 

They picked their way over the fallen, groaning thugs, collecting arrows and magazines as they went and back outside. 

Someone had slashed the tires of her bike. Bobbi stared at it, her lips pursed, then looked back at the door with a murderous expression. 

"Um, Mockingbird?" Hawkeye said tentatively. "I'm sorry I wrecked your op back there." 

She sighed and shook her head at him. "No, I get it. You'd no way to know what was happening. My timing's been off since I left Madripoor anyway. Thanks for saving my life." 

"Thanks for saving mine." 

She smiled. It was a nice expression, making her eyes crinkle and taking years off her face. She had a mouth for laughing. 

A mouth for kissing. Hawkeye moved closer to her, his targeting instinct kicked back into high gear, if aimed a little lower. 

She blinked at him, startled. Her tongue flicked out, blue grey eyes darkening under her lashes... 

The street froze around them, the air thick and heavy as they inched together. 

A hand grenade spun out of the doorway of the building behind them. Clint hurled himself at Bobbi  who was throwing herself backwards. They hit the cement and rolled under the nearest SUV as the explosion cratered the ground where they were. A group of the thugs came staggering out of the door, all of them bleeding from arrow wounds through arms and shoulders and non-lethal torso hits. Clint crawled out from under the SUV on the far side...and noticed Bobbi was still underneath. He dropped to his knees and looked at her; her eyes were closed, mouth slack. Something must have clipped her in the head. Clint hauled her out from under the SUV and tried to get her into the car so they could run but the doors were locked, what kind of thugs lock the damn car on their way out to kill someone, come on...  
   
The thugs came around both sides of the vehicle, guns drawn. Hawkeye, on his knees, pulled Mockingbird's head into his body and turned to place his forehead on the side of the vehicle. Maybe his chest plate would stop some of the bullets. Maybe she would live.

It mattered to him a lot that she might live.

He imagined the Avengers arriving on the scene, Natasha staring dry-eyed and still at his corpse. Bruce, or maybe Steve, touching the limp body of the woman in his arms, feeling the life still struggling inside her. They would help her, heal her, protect her...for him if for nothing else. She wouldn't be alone.

Hawkeye was smiling into her golden hair when the shots rang out.

He'd been shot a few times. He knew what it felt like. He felt nothing.

Then the bodies hit the ground around him. He looked up to see a man in black with a white skull emblem streaked down his torso stalking across the road towards them. He was carrying two guns, smoke still drifting from their barrels.

Hawkeye stood up, laying Bobbi down first, keeping his hands well away from his body and his bow.

"Castle." He nodded his head sharply as the other man came into earshot. "Thank you."

Frank Castle, called The Punisher by the media, looked like someone had tried to build an Italian New York cop from scratch, then doubled the recipe. He was tall, dark and grizzled, his face scratched with scars. His body was powerful and dangerous looking. 

Never, in anyone's recollection, had he smiled.

"Where's the rest of the circus, Barton?" Castle muttered, looking around at the men littering the ground. They were all dead, single shots to the heart or head.

"Just me tonight. Well, and the lady." He gestured at Mockingbird lying face up next to the SUV. A trail of blood from one of the bodies had nearly reached her. Hawkeye pulled her up before it could foul her hair, supporting her against his body.

"Hunh," Castle said, looking slightly less hostile. He and Steve _did not_ get on and he usually extended the animosity to the rest of the Avengers.

"Boy, I hope I'm not dead cause you guys make shitty angels," Mockingbird groaned as she roused, rubbing her head. She squinted up at Hawkeye, then down at the bodies. "Nice shooting, Castle."

"I know. What's going on here?" 

"Well, I'm going to steal this SUV from the bad guys and you two are going to go your own way," she said brightly, stepping away from Hawkeye.

Her knees went out and she collapsed against The Punisher like she was trying to pants him. He grabbed her by the back of the jacket and hauled her off, glaring at Hawkeye as if it was his fault.

"Well, maybe I need to rest a little and re think this plan," Mockingbird said in a conversational tone.

In the distance, they heard sirens, getting closer. 

Hawkeye draped Mockingbird's arm over his shoulder. "Any chance we could get a lift out of here?"

"Yeah," Castle grunted and lead them the next street over to a black van. Hawkeye laid Mockingbird down on the floor in the back, carefully not touching any of the weapons racked on both walls. "Where to?"

Hawkeye opened his mouth to say "Avengers Tower" when Mockingbird called out a different address, in Jersey City. Weirdly happy, Clint settled down on the floor next to her and closed his eyes, trying not to think about what would happen if one of the grenades next to his head turned out to be faulty...

Castle kicked them both out of the van once they arrived, ignoring Mockingbird's protests that Clint was headed back to his place. Outside on the street, Clint saw a block lined with low to middle income apartments, deserted.

Mockingbird looked unsteady and discomfited, unable or unwilling to argue with Castle's blunt cold refusal to take the Avenger home. She looked from one man to the other and _something_ came into her eyes, something Clint noted he'd seen twice before, once when they'd fought the first time and once when she'd killed the first drone.

He held his breath, aching to see what she was going to do with that fierce wildness this time.

Her face smoothed into a mask of grateful supplication and she stepped to the driver's window of the van, reaching out to lay her hand on Castle's arm.

"Thank you," she said, her voice cracking with sincerity, "deeply. Humbly. For not murdering us."  
   
Hawkeye tensed to run.

Castle stared her straight in the eye for a long time. His face twitched once.

"You're welcome." He looked over her head to Clint. "You've got your hands full, Barton."

Mockingbird shook her head as the van drove away. "Man has no sense of humor," she remarked over her shoulder at Hawkeye, digging into an inside pocket for a house key.

Years later Hawkeye would have a blinding flash of clarity about that moment.

Well, it was rare to be able to identify the EXACT second you realized you were in love with someone.  
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
 


	3. Hours 9-12: That is completely and totally a van

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawkeye and Mockingbird eat, sleep, talk and threaten each other. As one does when courting another superhero.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With love and affection for Matt Fraction and David Aja and if you haven't read their run of Hawkeye (just ended, trade paperbacks out now) go and do it instantly!
> 
> We'll wait here for you.
> 
> Back? 
> 
> Great, on with our story.

Clint woke up feeling achey but happy. The burning wound in his arm was muted to a dull undertone; pain without injury. He pushed it away as he would push away the distractions of battle when he needed to shoot.

The whole escape, including the warehouse, had taken about two hours. When they had reached her loft style apartment on the top floor of the remarkably empty building (there were two suites, each taking up one whole side with doors almost directly across from each other) Bobbi had fallen over onto the queen bed in the middle of the room and lost consciousness. 

Clint had covered her up and explored the space, making grateful use of the large bathroom for a shower among other things. His undershirt was high tech wicking fabric; it reeked but the rest of his tac gear was relatively spotless. Rinsed, wrung out and set to dry, he'd be able to wear it in a few hours. The medical kit under the sink was pristine and practical and he mussed it up a bit treating himself. He'd nuked a meal out of the full freezer (empty fridge)--seafood lasagna--checked all the windows a couple of times and found her weapons cache.

Well, it wasn't exactly hidden as much as locked into a large metal cabinet that took up one whole short wall of the rectangular space. Without thought, he picked the lock, disabled the explosive device on the door and took at look at candy land.

Rows of knives took up half the cabinet: throwing knives and more hand to hand items all looking clean but worn. There were several handguns of various calibre but she clearly favored 9mms; a gorgeous repeating shotgun had pride of place and two straight up sniper rifles gleamed in his vision. He'd expected a few sets of batons but there were only a single hardened bamboo pair that looked more sentimental than practical; made sense, the ones he'd seen her use were clearly custom made and pretty high tech.

Next to the bamboo was a bow and arrow set. Lots of arrows actually, high quality carbon fibre shafts and hunting tips. He was reaching for the bow when she spoke behind him.

"Yeah, I know it's a compound, but I can't draw what you can."

He looked over his shoulder, grinning at her. She had the kind of sleek straight hair that fell into place when she stood up, a few errant strands being brushed out of her face even as she rose creaking to her feet.

"With the castors set like that it must deliver what...one fifty? Two hundred?"

"And of course you can tell that just from looking. Two hundred but my shooting speed is orders of magnitude slower than you."

"Everyone's is," he said casually as he turned back and took the bow down. It felt nice in his hand, the way a bat felt lighter when you took the weight rings off it. Nice, but juvenile. He'd never used a compound to talk about it much--the slight hitch in the draw from the castors taking the weight wasn't worth the extra power. Most people, he'd been told, couldn't even tell. 

"Target's behind you, which I think you already know."

On the far wall a large straw and wood target was set up. He'd assumed it was for knives.

"That's close to the windows." They were directly to each side of the target.

"I perform better under pressure," she laughed.

He tucked four arrows into his right hand, set his stance and put all four of them into the bullseye before the sound of her voice faded.

"Nice action, but I can't stand that hesitation," he said, shaking his head and replacing the bow, then shutting the cabinet. 

She narrowed her eyes at him but they held a wicked gleam. "We're not all super heros, Hawkeye."

"Neither am I," he snorted.

"The whole world might beg to differ with that, sport. I got what, two hours of sleep? Trade you."

He nodded gratefully, stripped off his tac suit without thinking and slid under the soft, clean sheet in his boxers. As he lost consciousness he heard her mutter: "No body should be that perfect." 

Clint was asleep before he could grin.

He opened his eyes to mostly darkness, with one pool of light to his right. He turned his head and saw Mockingbird standing in front of the big wooden table that marked one side of the kitchen area, her back to him. The light came from a shaded lamp to one side. A different and more extensive medical kit was spread out on the table.

Her tac gear--a body suit in navy blue so deep it looked black in most lights with an oddly shimmering white stripe down the center--was peeled down to her waist. Her bare back was to him and in the uncertain light he saw a patchwork of scars that rivaled anything he'd ever seen on the most injury-prone field agent. The whole left side was a mass of old adhesions, pocked and broken skin, radiating out from the shoulder.

_How could she even use that arm?_

He pushed himself up and she spoke softly, apparently having heard him.

"Hawkeye, can you help me with this cut? It goes right over the shoulder to the back of the neck." She tossed her hair to the other side and turned around, standing brazenly half-naked in front of him.

He sensed no posturing in the action, nor anything sexual about it. She was treating him as a fellow agent, as though the mission was more important than modesty or social norms. She was treating him as Black Widow would have in the same situation: with respect, not indifference.

He was certainly not indifferent and his body advised him of that in no uncertain terms. She was--in a simple word--striking. Her face was strong and filled with character, lines of pain and laughter both ground into the corners of her eyes. In perfect honesty, Natasha was several levels more classically beautiful but he found Mockingbird's small delicate nose and pointed chin, her wide mouth and sharply slanted cheekbones luscious. Her body was astonishing, a professional athlete in the midst of hard training for some life changing event: perfect six pack, curves looking carved from some rich wood. Her breasts were full and round and high, though not overly large. She made Black Widow look blurred in comparison. Hell she made _Steve_ look soft.

She seemed...pared down, though, rather than 'in shape'. As though it had been a long time since she'd had enough to eat, or anything approximating rest. As though her body was eating itself to stay alive and leaving only the structure of her bones to show her sex.

Clint reacted the way he would have in the Avenger's locker room, with Natasha. "Quit pointing those at me, I'll lose an eye."

Mockingbird looked down as though surprised she was topless. Then she laughed, a thick deep noise. "Sorry, no fair, no fair, mea culpa. But you gotta put on a shirt. I've got a torso fetish."

"Well, we're both in a crap load of trouble here then," he said.

"What? You have a thing for hyper-masculine stick-fighters with smart mouths?" she returned and there was no mistaking the edge of bitterness in her voice, though it sounded so ingrained he thought she might not even be aware of it herself. She turned her back again, talking over her shoulder.

"Who told you that piece of bullshit, anyway, or are you just one of those people who can't take a compliment?"

"Hawkeye, just cause you'd do any consenting thing that moved--" 

"I would not, who told you that?" he snapped, stung.

"Uh, two thirds of the female agents on board the main Helicarrier."

He paused, wincing. "It was less than that. Slightly. I think. Ungh." His hands found the ratty T-shirt he'd located in the top draw of her dresser, soft and clean but smelling faintly of her musk. It was probably baggy on her. The worn cotton stretched across his pectorals and biceps. 

"If it helps, the consensus was that you were a monster in the sack."

"It does not help, no." He had gone girl crazy for a few years, he knew that. They had all been post Nat, too. When he'd been with her, he'd been faithful. Faithful unto death--he'd been expecting to be with her forever, for the foreshortened value of forever that was a field agent's life. 

But they had needed different things, in the end. At least they had managed to turn their relationship into the friendship they had now. She was his best friend and his greatest heartbreak at the same time. He'd thrown himself into random sex the way a diver threw themselves into a pool and he'd never expected to break the surface again, what woman could live with him? What woman could he expect to face each day as a new opportunity to watch him die? 

This woman in front of him, golden and blue and brilliant; strong, courageous and aching with old wounds--she felt like the first deep breath of air he'd taken since that night in a safe house in Vilnius, when he'd learned the one thing the woman he loved didn't want was his soul.

Like and unlike Black Widow; they strobed in his inner eye, red and gold fighting it out.

Somehow, without realizing it, he was standing next to the golden one now, his hands applying disinfectant and liquid bandage to the vicious deep cut at the join of her neck. She'd lifted a supply of the really good stuff from SHIELD, it dried and pulled the edges of the wound together in seconds. When he was done, she helped him do the cut on his back he'd half forgotten about. 

She politely did not comment on his obvious erection.

Then he wandered around the big loft while she ate, trying to make his unruly libido calm down. It wasn't easy, wearing her shirt, smelling her clean warm skin from her shower. He'd been asleep two hours or so himself--that was an agent thing, you could set your watch by their internal clocks. It wasn't enough for either of them but it was more than they would have gotten on a black op. He shook his head at himself, surprised at how quickly he'd become used to getting enough sleep in a bed, not a cot or a pile of leaves; having fresh well-cooked food and not ration bars that tasted like chocolate dirt; having the best weapons, medical care, personal service. Compared to the map of deprivation carved into her skin he felt decadent, squishy.

"Hey, why is there no one else in this building? Didn't hear or see anything on the way in."

"Hmm?" she looked up with a mouthful of noodles, then swallowed. "Oh, I own the place. Have a guy, a caretaker, that comes in and checks it every few days, keeps it clean, makes sure no one's squatting. I actually own two buildings on the next block over--in return for keeping this place ready as my last bolt hole, he and his extended family and friends live in those apartments rent-free. Some of them are illegals but they're good people and they needed a break. I knew them from where I grew up; they consider me family. The whole neighborhood guards for me. Never had a problem."

"You own the place? You've got money?"

"Not any more. I burned any reserve I had left while I was out of the country and tracking down...what I came back for. The end of the month the deeds revert to my caretaker; he's been told to sell this place and use the money to maintain the other two. I'll either be clear or beyond caring by then." 

"That's not the only reserve you burned," he gestured up and down, taking in her whole form. "What have you been doing, walking the Outback alone for a few years? You look like you escaped from a really buff prison camp."

She snorted, then choked since she had a mouthful of soup. When she was done coughing she held her chest and looked at him with a mixture of irritation and appraisal. "It's a fair description of what I've been doing the last few years, actually. Unlike some of the agents who got tossed out on their chins when Rogers and Romanova decided to burn SHIELD to the ground, the rest of us were left without cushy towers to go live in."

Clint blinked at her, keeping his 'duh, I'm just a dumb sniper' expression as default. Her use of Natasha's 'real' last name was telling; either a slip or a deliberate warning sign.

_Back off. I know more than you think._

He skated over it, wanting to see what she thought she knew.

"You were Agent 19, right? Nat'd told me a while back that you'd gone rogue. Just after New York. Any reason I shouldn't believe that?"

Her eyes narrowed, going dark with something like anger but colder. Clinical.

She was between him and the weapons cabinet, his own gear; he'd only just noticed that.

He brutally suppressed his hungry smile. He'd _love_ to go toe to toe with her for real, not like the fucking around they had done earlier. He'd love to pit his strength and speed and accuracy against her brilliance and skill and sheer malicious intent. 

He'd love to spar to exhaustion and then have a nice leisurely bath together, kiss the bruises and cuts, map those scars with his tongue. See the rest of that sculpted body, find out if she tasted as good as she smelled.

It must have leaked out a little, or she was that expert at reading people because he saw her shoulders relax, her body weight drop back into her chair. The murder in her eyes faded, replaced with weary resignation and wry humor.

"No real reason you shouldn't. I've literally got nothing that proves I'm still on the side of the angels and who's fault is that, sport?" she said pointedly.

Now he winced. "What exactly does Cross have?"

"If it's the same data set I des--almost had back in Madripoor, it's a huge mixed bag. Some weapons schematics, lists of deep cover agents, safe houses, long term projects and contacts...all a little out of date but collated by someone who just went in and stripped any unsecured SHIELD computer they could find after the fall. Never on the web, only air-gapped laptops and thumb drives. I figure Cross wants it for the propriety Starktech; buried in the chemistry files are apparently ALL the reports about my last project from the Hydra moles on my team, straight back to Pierce. I've seen fragments of one and it was unequivocal about my loyalty to SHIELD and Fury. Pierce ordered them to bring me back alive so they could 're-educate' me." She stretched, making his idle fantasies from a moment before spring into sharper relief. "If nothing else, I want to destroy the intell. I'd like to cull my sections and send them round the Nick first, so he can call off--"

"How do...forget I said that. Of course you know he's alive." 

She snorted again, then pushed back from the table and opened the weapons cabinet again. Pulling out a duffle bag from the bottom, she lugged it back over to the table and pulled out a bunch of small, nasty things that went boom or slash or thud. She strapped a pair of simple police issue collapsable batons to the small of her back and began refilling slots in her tac suit. 

"If you want any of the arrows, take them. Ammo too. I'll either collect everything before the end of the month or I'll be beyond caring. Your phone is still working right? When I'm away--"

"I'm not letting you leave," Clint said from over by the front window where he was casually glancing out the sides of the blinds.

"No idea why you think you can _let_ me do anything, sport, but I tell you what. You 'let' me leave and I'll 'let' you keep breathing." She wasn't making a threat. She was stating a fact. Her hands never stopped loading and tucking and securing.

Clint wanted to rip his clothes off and hurl himself at her feet. The timing sucked, though.

"No, I meant, we should leave together and real quick. There's this van out front and I can't tell if it looks just like a van or it looks just like a _van_."

She made a humming noise and opened a drawer. The large TV on the wall sprang to life, showing a surveillance feed from the front of the building.

"Oh, wow. That is completely and totally a _van_. Shit. How did they find us?"

"Your name is on the deed to the building? But how does he know your name?"

"Your phone. You had it on you in the compound. He's tracking it. Must've taken him all this time to break into the telecom sub-system."

Clint reached into his pocket and prepared to snap the Starkphone in half.

"No! They lose the signal it'll be like yelling 'we know you're there'. Also, you'll need it later to get out of here. Gear up, grab anything you like from the cabinet. Two minutes." She was flipping through several other feeds from around the building and they were well and truly surrounded.

Clint took as many bundles of her arrows as he could fit in a backpack she threw him as well as (reluctantly) one of her hand guns and some mags. Some bottles of water went in too. She had taken most of her knives and several small round devices he was sure were grenades or explosives. Her long duster was packed with ammo and she finished up by slotting her personal batons into her forearm holsters. By then, men in black clothing and weapons they weren't bothering to conceal had formed up outside, cautious and professional. 

Mockingbird went out the front door a moment and he heard her open the door across the hallway, then came back in and changed the view to a split screen of the front of the building and the hall. The door across the hall hung open on an empty room.

"Okay, when I tell you--oh, hang on. Can you?" She made a gesture with two fingers, a SHIELD hand signal.

"Oh, please, I was like the first Spec Ops agent who could. I taught everyone else.

"Jackass. Right when I tell you, pop the back off your phone and pull the sim card. That will cut the signal and probably send them in, in which case get under the blanket on the bed and no, I'll explain why later. If they don't come in, out the front door, turn right, next door is roof access and we'll take it from there."

She sat down on the bed, facing the TV. He joined her, all his lascivious thoughts subsumed under the mission. She nodded and he pulled the sim card, placing the phone (off) and the card in the inner pocket of his suit. Next to his Avengers ID card. Which he still hadn't used to call for help.

He pushed that aside to unpack later, watching the feed on the TV.

The group out front, after a delay, all turned to one of their number, a slighter figure with some sort of small tablet in his hand. A quick discussion and then the obvious leader made a 'move in' gesture. 

"Right, here we go," Mockingbird muttered reaching down to grab the blanket. The sound of the front door being kicked in was loud, then boots pounding on the stair and collecting in the hall. Any thought these might have been legitimate police or national guard evaporated. These were men armed and ready to kill. The breacher aimed his shot gun at the door. 

Mockingbird shoved Clint down onto the bed and hurled the blanket over them both. For the first time he noticed it had an odd stiffness about it. Lined with _something_.

The sound of the shotgun blasting the lock was buried under a larger explosion. In the darkness under the blanket, Clint felt a pressure wave pass over them.

"What the?"

She flung the blanket off and he rolled to his feet ready to fight.

There was no need, the door and hallway were littered with bodies.

Across the hall he could see the other room wasn't empty at all. Just at the doorway stood the remains of a claymore directional mine tripod. How had she concealed that?

He whipped around and stared at her, his face horrified. Had she just slaughtered all of these guys?

"What? Oh, please, it was a hyper-modified flash bang, I'm not a psychopath," she laughed at him. "Come on."

Which is how Hawkeye and Mockingbird made their third escape of the night by tightrope walking along a wire line drawn between the building she owned and the next one before casually descending the outside fire escape and trotting off, the sound of groggy and deafened thugs being reamed out by their superior drifting through the night air behind them.


	4. Hours 13-16: Pretty sure that isn't your only womanly skill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interlude of relative quiet in the middle of a long night.

They wound up at an all night diner about forty five minutes walk from Mockingbird's apartment. It was empty but for the cook/owner, an East Indian man who greeted Hawkeye as a long lost son. They had a brief wordless "fight" about who had to sit with their back to the door; Mockingbird lost based on Hawkeye making a "distance weapon" gesture. 

She looked at the menu and blinked in surprise. Besides burgers and fries and all day American breakfast there was a page of curries and Indonesian foods, desserts with rosewater and dishes made with glass noodles and pork.

"Lumpiyang! You make your own?" she yelled into the kitchen when she turned the page.

"No, no, that is never my skill, I buy mine from a widow who lives in my building but you can never tell anyone or I am finished, I am done!" The owner, Rao, called back laughing.

"Do you have any now?"

"I will make the sauce fresh now, friend of my friend who finally brings a woman worthy of my food!"

"Oh, gods, do you make your own chai?

"Always! I will instantly bring a pot!"

"I love this guy," she burbled at Hawkeye, who was lounging against the back of the booth, his smile so wide you could see all his teeth. "Lumpiyang!"

"Always wondered what that was," he remarked, draining and refilling his coffee from the pot that had appeared magically on the table as they were seated. 

"Kinda like spring rolls with chicken and coconut heart and jicama but not fried, though I do a mean fried version with pork, I learned to make them when I was a kid, in school in Manila and oh, man, cooking is like the only womanly skill I have. And I haven't had a chance to cook anything in years."

"Pretty sure that isn't your only womanly skill," he said without thinking, looking out the window.

Silence reigned and he became frightened to turn his head. 

Then she laughed, bright and high and happy.

"You are such an asshole, Clint."

He looked at her, startled. "That's the first time you've called me by name."

"Hawkeye is your name."

"It's my code name--"

"No. It's your name. Fury was really really good at that. He was the one who called me Mockingbird and the first time I heard it it was like...coming home. Like someone finally saw me, the real me. You _are_ Hawkeye. Romanoff is the Black Widow, the real one, no matter what those pretenders in the ruins of Moscow want to claim. Stark named himself but he picked true; same for Banner."

"What about Cap?"

"Oh. It's too damn bad he was 'born' during the war. He's well named--it fits him--but it's too limiting. He's a symbol of more than America...but at least he's a symbol of the best of us." Here, now, despite everything that had happened she seemed more relaxed, calmer than she had in the twelve or so hours that he had known her. 

His physical attraction to her was hardly fading; if anything it was more intense with each moment he spent in her presence but he was finding something else growing as well. Something soft and quiet and bright as sunlight, wrapped in storm of passion and rage and terror, something he would give every drop of blood in his body to protect, to nurture.

It horrified him and inspired him and made him want to run screaming through the streets, his hair on fire to match his soul. He wanted to keep her safe away from the world and stand by her side at the end of the universe; he wanted to know more about her favorite foods, what music she liked. Did she prefer football or basketball or hate sports all together? He wanted to bring her little trinkets like a cat, lick her fingers like a puppy.

He wanted to know if she could block a low hook, take a hard shot to the stomach, come back from a broken nose and keep fighting. He wanted to make her scream in the darkness and smile in the morning. He wanted to hear her explaining what the _hell_ Banner and Stark were talking about most of the time.

Hawkeye had a feeling that she could match Steve move for move in any strategy/tactics simulation, out think Black Widow, out maneuver Thor. She palpably already had _his_ number.

And here she was, grinning and joyful over spiced tea and good food. Another side, each more beguiling than the last: spy, warrior, woman, hedonist, philosopher. He said as much and she laughed again, sweet as a child.

He wanted to make her laugh every minute, for the rest of her life. 

"Well, the one you haven't seen yet is scientist. I have two doctorates and a masters."

"And you seemed so simple and uneducated." 

She flicked a raw sugar cube at him, which he caught and ate.

Rao appeared with a bone china cup, saucer and teapot which he set reverently on the table. Mockingbird, with equal reverence poured out the milky amber liquid and took a sip.

Her eyes all but rolled back into her head with sensual pleasure.

Hawkeye's fists clenched. That should be him, not tea, doing that.

He snagged the cup when she put it down, drank a little and spilled more, coughing.

"Ginger!" he gasped as she took it out of his hand.

"Pussy," she responded.

Rao threw up his hands theatrically. "Finally! A real woman!"

"How many times have you served this to someone with him anyway?"

"Answer that and I will burn this place to the ground, buddy," Hawkeye said desperately.

Rao grinned and said something in a liquid voluble language he didn't understand which made her laugh again, gaily.

"I think that number's low, sport, but thank you for being kind to him."

Hawkeye drank his whole glass of ice water, watching her balefully as she chugged that devil's brew from the cup and refilled it.

"You grew up in Manila?"

"Hmm, oh, yeah. My parents were oil company scientists, I was born in Long Beach but we moved to the Philippines when I was about six. They dumped me in a boarding school in Manila and I barely ever saw them after that. Died in a plane crash when I was nineteen."

"Mine died in a car crash when I was eight. My dad wrapped the car around a tree. He used to hit us when he was drunk and he was always drunk and hence...accident." Why had he said that? He'd literally never told anyone that; Natasha knew but he'd never _told_ her. 

She reached across the table and took his hand, squeezing it silently. Her hands were firm and callused and warm. He looked at her quizzically. 

"It's such a betrayal, isn't it? Suddenly you're an orphan and all the things you wanted to say--worse that you wanted them to say to you--are just gone. Evaporated like mist in the morning. Every mistake set forever and you can never take it back or be forgiven."

"You can never forgive," he whispered. 

"That too, sport."

Their food arrived, hers a pile of clear noodle wrapped greens and chicken, smelling of garlic and peanuts and vegetables. His usual was onion rings, thick and salty. 

He stabbed her with a fork when she tried to take one of his rings but was open to negotiations. In the end he traded half his order for approximately a third of her food and considered he got the better end of the bargain.

They were debating sharing some honeyed ice cream when the group of youths swaggered in the front door, packing heat and intent on robbing the place. Two and a half minutes later they were running screaming down the street and Hawkeye was prying the fork he had thrown through one of their hats out of the wood backing of the booth near the door.

"Seriously, you knew the leader there?" he said to Mockingbird as she swung back inside, grinning.

"I broke his arm a few years back. He had the bad luck to hassle me when I was trying to make a phone call post being tortured for days (1). Apparently it didn't teach him anything."

"Rao, do us a favor, will you? Forget we were here? Two guys in a pickup truck chased them off."

"Of course my friend. Here are sandwiches and a thermos of coffee, go, go the police will be here soon."

They left out the back door, bickering lightly about who got the watercress one even though they had just eaten.

They wound up in Lincoln Park, near the west side baseball fields, the noise from the casino over the lake a muted undertone in the clear darkness. Finding a secluded picnic table they both methodically laid out and checked their weapons.

"Hey, what's with the cheap batons in the back holster?" Hawkeye asked. "Using those would be like me throwing rocks at Iron Man."

"Good analogy. They're my 'hold outs' cause I can draw and deploy them fast; my 'real' set is pretty battered. Last set left after the fall. The left one isn't releasing properly about fifteen percent of the time; I can drop and pull the others in a single forward roll. Better than fists."

"Manila. South East Asian stick fighting. Escrima?" 

She laughed softly. "Yeah. I call it Kali cause I mostly do the 'Westernized' form these days and that's the common name. It's a woman's art: the 'harder' you try to do it the worse you'll be at it. Done right it's all flow and timing and force multiplication."

"Blow me, you punch like a Mack truck, lady," Hawkeye remarked casually, lining up arrows in bundles of twelve based on infinitesimal variations in weight. 

She stared at him, biting her trembling lip, then gulped. "That's...the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. Including every dude who's tried to fuck me."

"That's not why I said it," Hawkeye snapped with intensity, stung and horrified that she might think he was trying to manipulate her.

"I...I believe you," she responded, still staring at him. "What ARE you, Barton?"

"Dumb archer."

"Don't you fucking mock me. Not now. Not after all this."

"I'm not--"

"Then you don't say things like that about yourself!"

"Why would you care?" He leaned over the table towards her, his voice quiet. Their eyes caught and held, blue to grey-blue, deep and warm and older than either of their hearts. They had both seen things, done things, that should have hardened them into ice and rock. 

And yet they were both vital and alive.

He saw in her gaze a reflection of his own turmoil, his own desire. The same agony burned her soul as tortured him, the same huge, tiny, ephemeral, granite horror.

The same joy. 

Sometimes you temper iron and it shatters; sometimes you temper it and it turns to steel, sharp and strong and flexible. Most humans broke when you tempered them; there was no shame in it. Broken over and over, these two had stood up each time and staggered on. They were part of the tiny percentage that grew stronger, like healed bone. 

The tension between them ramped and ramped until it was unbearable, exquisite. The instant before the fingers uncurled from a bow string; the singing impact of metal on metal.

Red and blue lights kicked up from the road near by. A man's voice over a loud speaker. "You, there at the table. Don't move; keep your hands where we can see them."

Mockingbird disappeared, shimmering out of existence as though turning to mist.

Hawkeye spread his hands on the table top.

"Camotech?" he said softly, into the space where she had been. That explained the weird shimmer of the white stripe down the middle of her uniform. 

"The only full body suit made. Seven minutes," her disembodied voice said from nowhere. "Then I start to bleed from the nose and mouth. Convulsions at ten."

"When were you planning to ditch me?" he asked, calm. Resigned.

A brief flurry of the air, moving away from him, towards the trees.

_Now, apparently._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) As described in "Mockingbird: The Wilderness Years" on this fine site.


	5. Hours 17-20: All of you, floating around in here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mockingbird holds a team meeting with herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to say, I didn't plan for "him" to show up in this story. You'll see who.

Bobbi finished washing her face then began to methodically clean the blood off the counter, mirrors and floor of the small restroom she'd found on the top floor of the huge mall just south of the park. She'd have liked to get further away from...from Hawkeye and the consequences of her actions, leaving him like that...   
    
No. She'd done the right thing. If she wasn't with him, she couldn't compromise, endanger him any more.   
    
She stared at her reflection, seeing a pale worn stranger in the harsh fluorescent lighting. Her imposter syndrome was always worse when she had to use the camotech for an extended period; it set up some weird resonances in the brain the tech section had never understood. She was reportedly the only person who'd been able to wear and use the suit for longer than a few seconds without screaming and trying to rip her own head off. She could wear it to the full extent of the solar charge--twelve minutes--if she was able to staunch the blood and control the seizures. The techs had muttered things about 'flexible neural pathways' and 'superior chemo-reception' that were High Science for "no idea why this is happening, I guess you're just special".   
    
She had some time to think now; the mall was still closed but that was hardly an obstacle for her to sneak in and hide. This bathroom was clean and the door was locked from the inside, she should have a few hours maybe. It would be at least twice that long before she could safely use the camotech again.  
    
When she looked up again _they_ were all there, lined up around the room.   
    
Mockingbird with her big old 'leaning against the sports car' 'tude, a pony tail high on the back of her head, twirling her batons idly. She was taller than her real self, her body chiseled perfection.   
    
Doctor Morse, clean and clinical in her white jacket, her hands tucked into her pockets, a vacant polite smile on her face.   
    
Barbara, jeans and a T-shirt, looking like a scruffy kid in an adult body, hair messy, expression angry and wary.   
    
Agent 19 dressed in a SHIELD issue business suit, bland and plain and anonymous but for the clear line of the weapons under her jacket.   
    
And her, Bobbi, the one in the meat body, her hands shaking from the pain and exhaustion, heart-hurt and sad, sick, frightened.   
    
"Well, another fine mess you got us into, Babs," Mockingbird said, grinning. She grinned back, in the mirror. She and Mock got along the best of all her selves and she was happiest when she was subsumed into Mockingbird fully.   
    
"No, actually, you were happiest back there at the diner, talking to Hawkeye. That wasn't me there, other than inside your head," Mockingbird laughed at her.   
    
"Agreed," murmured Doctor Morse. "Other than the elevated heart rate--a concern, are you low on electrolytes?"   
    
"She wanted to fuck him, doc. I bet her underwear is dripping," grunted Barbara.   
    
"There is no reason to be vulgar, Barbara," Doctor Morse said cuttingly. _They_ had always hated each other, the scientist and the angry teenager she helped contain.   
    
"Sex?" Agent 19 raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure you're ready? It's a great hook onto the subject but not if you start screaming and trying to stab him when he take his pants off."   
    
"It's been two fucking years, she's fine. I would love to get my hooks into that piece of meat, let me tell you," Barbara snickered.   
    
Everyone in the room looked at her in disgust.   
    
"What? Oh, fine, fine, you don't want me, I'll go," she snapped then reached out and punched Mockingbird on the shoulder.   
    
Then there were four.   
    
"I have no clue why you keep her around," sniffed Doctor Morse.   
    
"She's been fading out for years but the first self is the most enduring. I needed her, back there in Madripoor. Nothing fights despair like rage." Bobbi sat down on the counter and bowed her head. "Options, children."   
    
"Go back to the park and apologize to Hawkeye for ditching him, accept his help, get him to call the Avengers and go back to Cross fangs out and hair on fire," said Agent 19 pragmatically. Agent 19 was a team player 100%.   
    
"There must be a different way to mine this data you need? Some way that doesn't mean risking your life?" The ever reasonable Doctor Morse, who'd been starved for attention for quite a while and just waited, patient and calm.   
    
Mockingbird was uncharacteristically silent. It was a judge-y silence.   
    
Bobbi winced. "Say it."   
    
"You're a fucking idiot. You ran from him why? Because you didn't want to deal with pantsfeelings? Because of pride--It's your problem, you need to fix it? You ran to protect him? Bullshit. You ran because you were afraid he WOULD help and then you'd owe him. Guess what, sport, you already owe him. And he owes you."   
    
"You're mostly right. Too many words. I wasn't afraid I would owe him. I was afraid."   
    
"Of him?"   
    
"Of me. I shied off Danny when I saw how pure of heart he was. I nearly destroyed Lance, I could have gotten him to betray everything if I'd asked and I almost did. Then Slade...and...how can I offer anyone anything so broken?"   
    
Agent 19 frowned. "You don't really believe that Slade 'soiled' you somehow? Do you?"   
    
"No, not really. And also yes, sometimes. I mean, I've drawn and tested enough blood to know he didn't give me anything so I'm as physically okay as I could be. It's this brain. All of you floating around in here. No integrity. No solidity. No future."   
    
"He hangs around with people who have those same problems and they're pretty functional," Mockingbird said gently. "They save the world and stuff."   
    
"Just from the evidence, I think Captain Rogers would be able to provided a lesson or two on ethics and honor and reputation," said Doctor Morse.   
    
"There's more than that," said another self, from just out of her line of sight. It spoke with deliberation, slower and deeper than her other voices. Bobbi did not look up. She'd "met" this self a few times, mostly recently when she and Hawkeye were riding that motorcycle away from Cross the first time. Before that, this new self had come to her in the deepest darkest times, the times when even Mockingbird could not stand, could not fight. But she came with hope, with joy, with wild reckless love of the universe and her place in it.   
    
She was free as a soaring bird and she would fight the gods themselves to preserve what she loved.   
    
She sounded like all of them put together: clinical Doctor Morse, rational Agent 19. Raging Barbara. Brave Mockingbird. Frightened Bobbi.   
    
"When you were with him, so were we all. He... _solidified_ you. Us." 

"That's worse. I can't be dependent on him to fix me."   
    
"He didn't fix you. He gave you a firm spot to stand so you could fix yourself." This new voice was determined but gentle and held a bubbling edge of laughter.   
    
And there it was, the answer she'd been scrabbling around for. Despite how off balance and fluttery and distracted Hawkeye had made her feel he'd been an absolute redoubt, a fortress. When she'd been weak, he'd been strong...and then stepped back and left her to be strong again when she was recovered. When he'd been weak, he'd leaned on her. His relationship to her hadn't changed when she was saving his ass or he hers.   
    
He seemed to see all of her, all of the _hers_ , and like them all the same. Like? He'd wanted her as badly when she was threatening him as when they were sharing food, fighting, laughing.   
    
She'd wanted him twice as much, after two years of wondering if Slade had cauterized that part of her, destroyed her ability to take carnal pleasure from anything but food and violence.   
    
Apparently she was torso queen or something. The chest fetish had never really gone away and he was over qualified for that part. And what was with the abs? How did you get abs like that? His face was square and snub nosed and rough, marked hard by his life. Surrounded by beautiful thoroughbreds, he was the stolid quarter horse, with the wild mustang streak. From the first moment she'd seen him she wanted to lick him like an ice cream cone. The quiet happiness in his eyes while they ate together was even sexier, wrapping her in comfort like a quilt.   
    
"I fucked up, didn't I?" she said, still staring at the floor. "Leaving him like that."   
    
"Boy howdy, sport, did you ever," responded Mockingbird cheerfully.  She never pussy-footed around anything.   
    
"He will forgive you. Preliminary physical and verbal cues indicated not just attraction but affection. Also, understanding of the unique nature of your situation, needs, abilities." Doctor Morse was invaluable for pattern recognition but she had no bed side manner at all.   
    
"It'd be nice to touch base with Romanoff, sometime. You two have a lot in common. You should have been friends," said Agent 19.   
    
"Fury would wake up at night, sweating, thinking about you and Romanoff meeting. He knew he could not contain you both if you teamed up. Adding Barton to the mix would have been incendiary," said Deep Blue, as Bobbi decided to call her. She was apparently in charge of the parts that were good at condensing fact from the vapor of nuance. Snippets of conversation overheard, Fury and Hill and Coulson looking over at her, muttering and canny. She could have had support, understanding. Actual team mates.   
    
_Hawkeye. She could have had Hawkeye._ Without this stew of pain and fear and urgent desperation.   
    
"Fuck Fury. He crippled me to make his life easier. Fuck him," Bobbi hissed, her fists clenched.   
    
"That's the spirit," Deep Blue cheered. "You don't have to be alone, but you're no one's lackey. Not any more."   
    
"All right." Bobbi looked up, back into the mirror. The room was empty and she looked like herself again, centered and focused. "Mission change. Cross is number two on the list. Number one: Find Hawkeye and beg him to forgive me."   
    
She exited the bathroom to a mall that was starting to wake up, stores open, crowds already gathering. She swung down the escalator, her soul getting lighter and lighter with each step, practically skipping by the time she got to the mezzanine. For the first time in years she wasn't looking up the walls of a dark pit so high she would never climb out. She wasn't alone! Maybe! If Hawkeye didn't tell her to fuck off!   
    
And then the words drifted over to her, lazy, languid, just loud enough--in that oddly accented voice of his--that she would hear him over the crowd noises.   
    
"Hello there, blondie."   
    
She turned her head slowly, hoping she had misheard but he was standing there, compact and powerful and oozing death like a slaughterhouse. He was wearing normal clothes, jeans and t shirt stretched tight over hard muscle. With his tattoos covered his Mohawk style hair was his only affectation left. Despite how basically normal he looked, people were detouring around him as though he had a personal force field. "We got so much to talk about but I'm a little edgy from the flight--" 

The clues slammed down on her head like hammers dropped from a plane.   
    
_WHAM_ The tip to the Australian authorities.

 _WHAM_ The visit from MI13.

 _WHAM_ Every unexpected issue with logistics.

 _WHAM_ Hell, the data showing up in the first place.  
    
He'd engineered everything to delay her long enough to get out of Madripoor himself, without Patch tailing him. It was almost flattering, that he hated her this much.   
    
( _FLEE/FLEE/PREDATOR/PREDATOR/PREY/PREY/PREY_ )   
    
He made an "after you" gesture with one hand and as it came back down to his leg he extended one of those beautiful deadly claws. A wave of pheromones washed over her, triggering a primal slash of fear and need in every cell of her body. Three small children nearby started to scream; an older man clutched at his chest, staggering.  
    
"--I need some exercise. Run, blondie. Run."   
    
*****

Hawkeye stayed seated as the two police officers advanced on him, despite his gut screaming at him to "GO AFTER HER MORON!".

If he got up now, the best thing that would happen is the cops would draw down on him and he'd have to shoot them and that was not on the cards for him personally or any Avenger in general. God damn it, the woman was too smart for his own good. She'd trapped him neatly and efficiently. 

"Sir, please keep your hands clear of the stuff...and hey wasn't there someone else at the table a second ago?" The second voice was a woman, clear and professional and then perplexed.

False dawn was breaking so the light was uncertain where he was. Hawkeye turned his head towards them, his hands never moving. Two flashlights caught and held his face; he smiled.

"Well, you might have seen someone there but they weren't...there...you know?"

"Hawkeye!" The male half of the duo cried.

"Seriously? Sir, do you have ID?"  
    
"I gotta reach into the suit to get it. I can do it safer for you if I can stand."  
"Aw, come one, that's Hawkeye--"

"No." The woman's voice snapped. "He still has to show ID. You can stand, sir, and reach into your suit with one hand, is that all right?"

"Fine, thank you officer." They had stopped well within thirty feet of him. Even one handed and blind from the flashlights, he could have killed both of them before they got a shot off.

Clint pulled his Avengers ID card out of the inner pocket of the suit and handed it over. Stark and Cap had negotiated with the UN and State Department to have their ID cards designated valid international ID, like a combo passport/drivers license/security clearance--that way none of them had to over expose their civilian identities when traveling.

After that the two officer relaxed, the male fan-boying at him; the woman asking polite, friendly, penetrating questions about what exactly an Avenger was doing sitting in a Jersey park before dawn sorting weapons on a picnic table.

"And I could have sworn there was someone else sitting there, looked like a blond? A woman?" she asked him, her eyes narrowed. 

"Officer, I'm not saying I'm out here testing remote equipment including a new hologram communications device that Stark wants to mass produce but I'm not _not_ saying that either. Nudge nudge."   
    
She nodded at him, her face more visible. She still looked skeptical. He sorta loved her for it: professionalism was a turn on. It didn't hurt that she was a regal looking African American woman, long-necked and stern faced.  
   
"You're all alone just testing stuff?"

Hawkeye shrugged, gathering up his arrows and tucking everything back into Bobbi's backpack, snagging two knives she had left behind. "Well, honestly? No. There's the beginnings of some...stuff...happening and I'm out trying to get a read on it. But Stark's never one to waste an opportunity so--" he shrugged.

Now they both looked concerned. "Do we--the department--need to be worried?" asked the man, a bland white guy with brown hair.

"Are any civilians in danger?" the woman asked more urgently, her hand on her radio.

 _Stop being so fucking contentious and let me go chasing after Mockingbird already!_

"I don't think so," Hawkeye said, spreading his hands and shouldering his collapsed bow in its case. "We're trying to gather intell right now--ah, shit." He cursed, letting a guilty expression cross his face. It was better to let people think they'd caught you in a small lie; made the big ones easier to conceal.

"We? I knew there was someone else here," said the woman.

"She's not actually here, though, like I said. And she's undercover--after all _she's_ not blond, right?" 

"Black Widow's around here?" asked the man, his expression back to eager.

The woman threw him a disgusted look. "Listen, can we be of any assistance to you? Or the Avengers in general?"

"Officer, the best thing you can do for me right is point me in the direction of the nearest all night coffee shop."

"There's a big mall a few blocks that way, I think there's at least two in that area," she said. "Listen, um, Hawkeye? I wouldn't normally ask for something like this but--"

"Yeah?"

"Look, my step-daughter loves you--you're her favorite hero. She asked for archery gear for Christmas and, well, we don't have a lot of money--four kids between the two families--but we got her some cheap second hand stuff and she never puts it down. I think it would mean a lot to her if--"

"You got something I can sign?"

She tore a page from her notebook and handed it to him. 

"What's her name?"

"Katherine. Kate."

Hawkeye wrote a few sentences on the page, simple and direct, praising the girl for being dedicated, told her to never stop training and that she was lucky because she had a hero to talk to first hand in her step-mother. He signed it and flipped it over, jotting down an address and account number, then handed it back to the female cop.

"You miss every shot you don't take," she read, smiling a little, then looked at the back of the page. "Greywolf Archery?"

"Company in upstate New York. They've contracted with Stark Enterprises to do a 'Hawkeye' line of equipment--all the proceeds go to funding sports programs for low income youth. You quote them that account number and you can order anything you need for Kate, Officer Bishop, for as long as she needs new equipment. Quote that same number at any sporting goods superstore and you can get anything else you need for the rest of the kids, on my tab." 

He wrote another sheet out for the man. "I'd prefer the stuff went to kids, you know, but if the detachment basketball courts need new nets or something, hey, no one's going to ask questions." 

He left them smiling and happy, his new best friends, and proceeded to locate a deserted coffee shop, clean and well-lit, and brooded over a table in the corner until it was full day light.

The problem was he genuinely didn't know what to do. He was going after her, 100%, that was sure but did he do it alone? He'd kept his ID card handy the whole time, staring at it now on the table. He had a feeling she would be furious at him for getting the rest of the team involved--and he frankly didn't want to call them. He wanted to keep her to himself, her passion and her brilliance and her devious brain. He wanted to be the only hero in her life right now... 

...but that was stupid. He was rapidly getting out of his depth and the others would--

Hawkeye winced, thinking about the polite reaming out he would get from Captain America; the disappointed stare from Nat. Stark teasing him, Thor perplexed and literal and annoying. Banner just confused as to why anyone would risk their lives over _data_...

An ambulance went by at warp speed, than another and fire truck. They squealed into the parking lot of the big mall, only just opened to the public.

He threw down a twenty and hurled out of the booth. 

The mall was in chaos, families clutching screaming children, two elderly people down on the floor getting CPR. Five panes of glass along one balcony wall were shattered. Hawkeye ran up the stairs and surveyed the situation. 

At the bottom of the mezzanine escalator was a splatter of blood, the trail leading to the shattered glass. From up here he could see a big dent in the top of the weird modernist sculpture in the centre of the main atrium, exactly where someone jumping off the balcony would have landed. 

On the far side of the space, a private access door literally hung off its hinges: it looked like it had been cut open with blow torch. 

Hawkeye kicked something on the ground, hearing his steel toe impact on metal. He bent down and picked up one of Mockingbird's custom batons, badly dented but whole. 

"Ah, geez, Bobbi, what have you gotten your self into now?"


	6. Hours 21-24: How do people like you survive in this world?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deus "X" Machina, indeed

Bobbi woke up feeling very cold. 

Various bits of her body hurt: her upper left arm had a burning needle stuck through it apparently. Her shoulders and wrists ached and she thought she might have broken a toe.

And it had all been for naught. She should have just shot herself in the head the moment she saw him in the mall.

When he'd told her to run, she'd done what came naturally: the exact opposite. She got her right baton out but the left didn't deploy correctly. Didn't matter. He'd crossed the space between them so fast she never saw him move and suddenly her left baton was on the ground and one of his claws had been stuck right through the muscle of her arm and withdrawn. He laughed as he flashed past her.

"Blood scent, blondie. I got you forever now."

Her will had broken under his uncanny pressure and she'd spun to flee. She'd kicked her own baton by accident, shattering one of the glass walls at the edge of the balcony and causing others to break in sympathy. The baton had rolled away, un retrievable. She'd used the moment to leap from the mezzanine onto the sculpture in the middle of the main floor, barely hearing the screams starting around her. Her body was still graceful and controlled, under the roiling chaos of terror in her mind and she landed lightly enough, seeing a maintenance door directly in front of her. When she slammed up against it she found it mercifully unlocked.

She'd run all right, in whatever panicked direction seemed easiest and took her the furthest from the mall. Away from people. Away from Hawkeye. She would not bring this disaster to his door.

When the pursuit had caught up with her, she'd had even known he was there until the moment before he struck. She'd gone down into darkness in a filthy alley, rolling and tumbling and praying to never wake up.

But now she was awake and she might as well open her eyes and see what was going on. 

She was hanging from her wrists in the center of a dusty open room, cracked windows along one wall slimy with dirt letting in mellow daylight in thin strands. There was a deserted office to one side and the rest of the space was broken here and there by metal pillars. She looked up and saw the rope on her wrists was cheap blue plastic but tied with the intricate detail of Japanese bondage porn. It was slung over a girder between two of the pillars. Her feet were bare--in fact, she'd been stripped to her underwear, which explained the cold. She heard the sound of someone chewing to her left. When she turned her head, she could see a trickle of blood running down her arm. 

He was delicately picking at a plate of what looked like sushi with a pair of chopsticks. He was shirtless again and the stark black of his tribal tattoos blazed against his pale skin. 

"I thought I had the deathwish here," she croaked, her mouth dry, her tongue thick. "Even I'd draw the line at New Jersey sushi."

He laughed, sounding surprised. "Damn, blondie, if I met a guy with half your balls I'd marry him." 

He scooped up a clay mug and brought it over to her. It was lukewarm green tea, which he fed her in little sips, the action intimate and almost affectionate. 

When it was done he casually tossed the cup away, grinning when she flinched at the crack of it breaking. She turned her head, not wanting to look at him. It was the pheromones, she knew, but being this close to him was like being high: head whirling, stomach aching...nipples hard. He wrapped one had around her throat and pushed up, forcing her to meet his eyes.

She gasped at his touch; his skin seemed hotter than to should be, burning her like a brand. 

"Hngh. You _are_ frightened of me." He sounded satisfied and confused at the same time.

"I'm pretty sure _GOD_ is frightened of you," she whispered. "I'm fucking terrified."

He snorted, then leaned in and sniffed her like a dog. That was for show--he could smell her just fine from across the room. "Turned on, too. Been a while for you, hey blondie? Tell you what, want to make a deal? You're not getting out of this alive but if you're really really nice to me I'll just kill you. No pain--well, less pain." He stepped back, grinning again.

"Liar," she said shortly.

"Yeah," he agreed. "I mean, we'll get around to the other, soon enough, but you cost me money, time, influence. Stuff I could have used to bring down the old man, for starters. Worse, you got away with disrespect and that's not right. You're going to bleed for it."

She forced herself to meet his eyes. "Why no gag?"

"If you yell, and someone comes, what happens to them?"

"You'd slaughter them."

"And fingerpaint on you in their blood."

She stared at him with distaste. Apparently if you knew about the pheromones you could fight them a little. She pushed them aside long enough to let her disgust and contempt show through.

He snorted again. "I am what I am, blondie."

"It must be hard being an insane homicidal psychopath, no one gives you credit for self-awareness."

He punched her in the ribs, hard and clean, and she felt one of them crack. "You don't have the old man's skirts to hide behind anymore, blondie. Keep that smart mouth to yourself."

Bobbi convulsed, shaking. The rough plastic rope sawed at her skin like barbed wire. "Oh, go to hell, you loon. I'm not going to be nice to the guy who's just told me he intends to torture and rape me to death because I hurt his feelings or something."

The claws on his left hand extended and pricked her under the chin, forcing her head up and back until she was arched like a bow, bare toes scrabbling at the rough dirty concrete. 

"You fucking heros just think you're so much _better_ than everyone else, don't you? All clean and pretty with your fancy gear and your shiny uniforms. But I've seen you, your types, you're as dirty as the rest of us, you just cover it up with perfume and bright colors and government lies. You've got the same blood reek on you as I do, blondie, I'm just more honest about where I've been bathing in it."

"I know what I am too, sport" she hissed at him. "And that is absolutely better than you. I didn't run to obey you, I ran to get you away from the civilians"

They stared at each other, his eyes so dark they look black; hers blue-grey and liquid with pain. Slowly he lowered his hand, his mercurial mood shifting back to jovial menace. "Eh, I wouldn't have started a massacre there. Too public. But I do gotta thank you for getting rid of the Avenger. By the time I picked your scent the guy was following you around like a puppy and I was not looking forward to offing him. I don't want to draw their attention. The soldier boy's the kind who wouldn't negotiate and Thor and the Hulk together could probably fuck me up."

"As anyone ever talked to you about your self-esteem issues?" she said brightly, when she could breathe again. The horror of her situation stuttered and faded a moment. Her heart was singing: she'd been right to ditch Hawkeye! She'd saved him!

"You're not even going to beg? Offer to tell me where the other set of data is? Cry? Nothing?" he walked away from her, out of her line of sight, and she heard him pouring liquid into another cup.

"I'll beg at some point, I'm sure. The data set? I was willing to die to keep it from you in Madripoor, that hasn't changed. I've been doing this job for a while, sport. I never expected to die in bed--I expected to die in a place like this, hard and bad, in pain and fear, surrounded by angry strangers who hate me. So, yeah, I'll cry for you. I'll bleed and weep and scream. You'll have the run of this meat puppet, whatever turns your crank. In the end, you'll kill me. But I'm not going to assist you in my own degradation; I said that before. It holds; I'll fight." She spoke idly, without passion or anger.

He sighed. "How do people like you survive in this world?"

"Live as though the world were as it should be, to show it what it can be," she said softly, smiling into the shadows and shafts of sunlight. They were beautiful in their own way, dancing with the dust in the air, shimmering and playful. She would at least have that to look at as he cut her to pieces. 

"Nice sentiment," he said from close behind her, moving on those soundless bare feet to press himself up against her back. She could feel his erection hardening against her thigh; she gulped, trembling and thrown backwards in time to a cabin in the woods and the smell of blood in the darkness, another angry man who loved/hated her. She took heart for a moment, thinking about another monster who'd had her in his power, a monster she had defeated.

She wasn't going to be able to defeat this one.

He stepped back far enough to lay his hand against the back of her neck. "I'll make you forget it soon enough." His claws extended and he started to draw them down her back, carving shallow grooves in her skin as though with a razor, perfectly parallel to her spine. They were barely more than scratches and already she was jerking and gasping, the agony a waterfall of lava pouring down on her.

There was a hum in the air, as though they were being dive-bombed by wasps.

He yelled something that she thought was "Motherfucker!" in idiomatic Japanese and spun around her to search the room with his eyes.

Sticking through his forearm was an arrow.

Another hum, and two more arrows appeared in his upper chest as though teleported. He howled, all wordless animal rage.

The hum came again--but now he had it vectored and the three projectiles fell from the air, split into pieces by his claws.

"How about you forget the lady exists, freak? And we'll all be happy," Hawkeye called, his voice moving in the deep shadow of the building.

"Damn, Avenger, you are not smart. First you go sniffing around a broad who ditches you like a used rag and now? Now you come here to die." The shirtless man turned with the voice, hands out and claws fully extended.

"You first." 

"No, Hawkeye, no, just go," Bobbi whimpered, still shaking and twisted from the pain.

"Listen, I'm not going to let you cut her up anymore, so why don't you take off before the rest of my team tears the roof off this place? Running from Widow and the Hulk will give you something to do with the last few minutes of your free life."

Bobbi felt a surge of hope mixed with fear. The Avengers would save them! And she would lose her shot at Cross under the questions and interrogation and being arrested and trying to explain herself to Captain America and the government but...Hawkeye would be safe!

The shirtless man stood up straight, breathing deep.

Then he smiled, wild and cold. "Lying. I can smell it on you. You shouldn't have ditched this guy, blondie. He's got stones like yours. Well, in a couple minutes he won't, but still."

The air became a storm of arrows, from every direction in waves. A lot of them struck, sending blood spraying, but the shirtless man acted like they were little more than thrown pebbles, slashing the shafts off his body, not even bothering to pull out the heads. He turned with the leading edge of the wave, crouched and leapt into the shadows. 

Bobbi saw a flurry of motion, two figures locked in combat...

A bow flew through the air, string snapped, to skid to a stop at her feet. 

Hawkeye came tumbling after it, rolling and rising to his knee with athletic grace...but he couldn't match the feral fury that was the clawed man. He came out of the shadow like a tiger, so fast and smooth he seemed to stand still. Hawkeye actually landed a punch, up under his opponent's ribs, but he might as well have been a child pawing at a heavy weight boxer. In the next second he was dangling from the shorter man's out stretched arm, choking and flailing. With his other hand the clawed man was flicking arrow heads out of his skin. The holes healed visibly as she watched.

"Let him go!" Bobbi yelled, swinging by her wrists, trying to kick the clawed man. "Let him go! I'll give you anything you want, any intell I have. I'll do anything you want, anything. Let him go! Let him live."

"Seriously?" The clawed man looked at Hawkeye and eased up some of the pressure on his throat, setting him down just enough to rest some weight on the ground. "I tell her I'm going to cut her to pieces and she pontificates at me but you show up and suddenly she'll be my private dancer just to save your pretty hide?"

"I'm nothing, he's an Avenger. They will come hunting for him. Let him go," she snapped, then under cut her stern tone. "Oh, gods, please let him go."

"I let him go, he's just going to keep coming back. But I cut him into small enough pieces, it'll be a good long while before they find out what happened to him," her adversary said with a smile. He leaned forward and licked at a thin line of blood trickling down Hawkeye's cheek from a small cut. "He tastes almost as good you do, no reason I can't let him in on the fun."

"You touch her again and nothing in the universe will keep me from ripping out your throat, I swear," grated Hawkeye, his hands gripping at the other man's forearm and squeezing. The sheer strength of the grip seemed to give the clawed man pause. 

"Tell you what, archer. How about I hamstring you and get back to work on her? See how long it takes me to drown you in her blood?" He threw Hawkeye into the concrete with stunning force and leaned down, reaching for the back of his legs.

Time froze. 

The clawed man stood still, his chiseled body arrested in the middle of his motion, his eyes vacant. A voice spoke from nowhere and everywhere, gentle, calm, with a high-class accent that sounded almost British.

"Mr Barton, if you would be so kind as to cut Dr. Morse down you will find her clothing and weapons rather neatly folded and stacked over by the door. It might be best if you left the area with alacrity; I cannot hold him this way forever."

Hawkeye looked around in confusion then the penny dropped. "How the hell did you find us, Professor?" He scrabbled to his feet, his hands shaking with adrenaline and pain. 

The suggestion of laughing in the voice. "The lady's ex employer contacted me a few hours ago, somewhat frantic for him, he actually sounded mildly concerned. I've been searching for our friend here ever since. I'm very glad I found him in time to stop his harming you. Oh, he advised me to tell you, Dr. Morse, that you can consider this all part of your Christmas bonus."

Bobbi was gasping for breath like she'd run a marathon. "Tell him I still owe him." Clint had produced one of her own knives and sawed her hands free. She all but fell into his arms, her whole body trembling. She held up a hand against Hawkeye's chest. "But he's going to come hunting us again as soon as you let him go. Unless he can't."

She and Hawkeye exchanged a look of disgust, mostly at themselves for thinking the same thing.

"I don't want to...not even him. In combat, yeah. To save an innocent, yes, but not...like animal to the slaughter," Mockingbird muttered. "But he'll just keep coming and now he'll come after you and I can't...I can't let that happen." She took the knife out of Hawkeye's hand, her throat working like she was going to throw up. He grabbed her forearm, staring at her, his eyes agonized. 

"Bobbi, no," he whispered. 

"If I might interject, Mockingbird--I can implant memories in him. He will remember Hawkeye, yes, but he will think all of the Avengers were here. He will think he was warned off you permanently by the good Captain, under pain of his own destruction, with the might of Thor and the Hulk and Iron Man behind it; it should be enough to drive him from the continent, though you will still have an enemy. In return, could I request that you not mention my, ahem, presence--or his--to the rest of the Avengers."

Bobbi closed her eyes, her gratitude naked on her face.

Hawkeye cleared his throat. "I can't...I won't conceal anything from the team that might hurt them. Not even for...not even for this," he said softly. "I'd rather he killed me."

Again, that soft mental laugh. "There has been some speculation in the larger community, Mr. Barton, as to exactly where your loyalties lie since the decline and fall of SHIELD. I am glad to see my personal suspicions confirmed. If you will allow me to touch your mind a little deeper?"

Hawkeye nodded, then his eyes went wide. He nodded again, sharply. "All right. Right, I get it. I can live with that."

"Thank you", said the man inside their heads. 

Bobbi opened her eyes and looked into Hawkeye's--

They both startled like deer on a highway, expressions of revelation and awe. His arms wrapped tighter around her reflexively, brushing the still bleeding cuts on her back. She yelped, breaking the trance, then shook herself loose of him.

"We should, we should go," she mumbled weakly, rubbing at her chafed and bleeding wrists. The both looked over at the clawed man with fear and distaste. 

"Not soon enough," Hawkeye muttered, scooping up his bow. They found her clothes where the voice had said and she shrugged into them swiftly, wincing as the fabric caught and stuck on the open wounds. SHIELD issue tac gear was impregnated with anti-microbial compounds, designed to act as a barrier for bleeding injuries. Other than the pain she'd take no ill effects from it. 

Hawkeye had a very clearly stolen SUV parked a few blocks away. They drove for a few miles, ditched it and stole another one together, all in silence. That one they ditched again after driving further east and walked to a cheap motel where Hawkeye threw down enough cash to make the owner ignore them other than to provide the key to a ground floor room well away from any other occupants.

Hawkeye was in the bathroom washing his hands when Mockingbird totally lost her cool. 

He came back out to her curled into a ball on the bed, weeping like a child, her breath coming in huge shattering gasps. He sat down on the bed, picked her up bodily and settled against the wall with her in his lap. He didn't say anything. Just held onto her until she could breathe normally again, then went out, foraged for water and cola and came back. She accepted a pop with an embarrassed look and they sat together on the ratty bed, tending wounds with the first aid kit he'd shoved in the bottom of his backpack hours earlier. When they were done, Hawkeye re-strung and checked his bow. She sat on the bed, knees to her chest. 

"So," he muttered, when it became clear she wasn't going say anything. "Maybe we should talk about all that...all that?"

"What part? Where I took off on you or where the homicidal psychopath took time out of his year to come hunting me? Not sure what you can take from it other than 'chick's bad news, Hawkeye'." 

"No, I meant that bit at the end where the Professor let us 'leak' into each other. The rest of it was just life; that bit was the interesting stuff."

"Oh. Yeah. I never knew he had that kind of shit-disturbing streak in him, from the stories Patch would tell. Always seemed a bit...humorless in those." She shifted uncomfortably. "Also, I think we both have a warped definition of normal life at this point."

"Subject change is off limits, Bobbi. You owe me that much," Hawkeye said quietly.

"I owe you my life. Again." She looked at him with the most nakedly vulnerable expression he'd ever seen. "Why? Why did you come after me?"

"You know why. You saw it in my head. Why did you offer yourself in my place like that?"

"You know why, same as I do."

"So."

"So."

"What do you want to do about it, Mockingbird? If you really want to walk away I...well, I'd like to say I'd let you go but I think that's provably not true."

She nodded, her eyes huge. Then she smiled, stood up and stretched, holding out her hand to him.

"Hawkeye, call the Avengers. We've been doing okay but we're both kicked to shit by now and I can't put any more civilians in danger. No matter what happens to me. Just promise you'll come visit me in Federal prison when Rogers throws me to the wolves."

"I will catch you before you land, I swear." 

He reached into his pocket and extracted his ID card, swiping his thumb across the 'call' pad for the DNA test.

It should have made a brief ringing noise and then connected him directly to Jarvis. 

Silence. He blinked, then pulled out his Starkphone, turned it on and--saw 'no service'.

Mockingbird looked at him, in dawning suspicion. "Say, when did you put the sim card back in that?"

"When I found your baton back in the mall--right, sorry, it's in the backpack--and I lost you guys in that second alley way. I asked Jarvis to track you with surveillance cameras in the area and oh, shit..."

Mockingbird picked up the land line phone in the room, listened, then shook her head. "Wanna bet there's a telecom black out in this whole area right now?"

"Perhaps we should leave?" Hawkeye stood up, collecting weapons with quick hands.

"Yes, perhaps."

They were out on the street, looking for another car to boost when they simultaneously noticed the five people clearly bearing down on them.

"Hawkeye?"

"Yeah?"

"Are they all...juggling?"


	7. Hours 25-28: You'll have to sign a waiver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawkeye has to juggle his past.

Hawkeye closed his eyes for a moment. "Tell me, you see a guy with a sword or one with a bow and arrows?"

"No," Bobbi said in a confused voice.

"I swear, of all the people in my past to dredge up, he had to pick these assholes," Hawkeye muttered.

"You know these guys? I thought the whole 'circus' thing was a fake out on your file," she exclaimed.

"No, it happened. I'll explain...never. I will never explain. They call themselves 'The Death-Throws', yeah, yeah, I know, I know. But I'm going to go talk to Oddball and Ringleader and if they try to throw anything at me, shoot them, okay?"

Hawkeye raised his hands above his head, the surrender in the gesture somewhat mitigated because he was still holding his strung bow and a handful of arrows. Mockingbird drew two of her hand guns and paced out from his right side half a dozen steps, putting all five of their opponents in her line of fire without compromising him. 

It felt like the OK Corral, civilians running and dodging into buildings as the two parties met in the middle of the street.

"Charlie. Elton," Hawkeye greeted them. 

Ringleader was a tall African-American man, a waterfall of steel rings flying through his hands as he nodded at Hawkeye. Oddball was smaller than the other man, with a bit of a paunch, his hands busy with a number of brightly colored balls. He grinned, his expression less friendly than mad--as in insane.

"Clinton Francis Barton as I live and breathe you've come up in the world," Oddball-Elton Healey--yelped cheerfully, the balls in his hands flashing and spinning in the light.

"Francis?" remarked Mockingbird, sotto voce. "Really?"

"Now? You want to get in my face about that now?" Hawkeye muttered back. He eyed the other three people: a very big blond woman, bigger and taller than Mockingbird who was pretty much a Valkyrie, tossing what most people would assume were replica grenades. A red-headed man in white was throwing flaming bowling pins and the last was a short guy with a head band who seemed to be tossing around a motley assortment of items from shoes to knives. The mix transformed constantly in a blurring dizzy wave. 

Ringleader shook his head. "Cross wants you to come in, Barton. We were already on his payroll; he thought you might respond to a familiar face. You and the lady. Just come in and talk."

Mockingbird started to laugh. "Oh, gods, Clint, he thinks we're both morons. Seriously. This is awesome."

"That a good enough answer, Charlie? Look, times have changed. I'm not an angry kid you can push around anymore. I _have_ come up in the world. All the way to the top of Avengers Tower. So back the fuck off, find a new employer and leave us alone."

The two men exchanged looks, still juggling. "We can't Clint. Cross wants you both and he pays well enough that he'll get it."

Hawkeye lowered his hands, crossing his bow across his body and resting the arrows in both palms.

"Charlie, Elton, we've been doing this for about a day now. We're getting in a rhythm here: Cross sends people to kill us, we wipe the floor with them, rinse, repeat. Go. Away.

"Aw, come on Barton. It'll be like old times! When we used to set you loose and come hunting! Hell, Cross even provided a girl for Bombshell to fight!" Elton said in his high voice. 

Everyone in hearing range looked at him in perfect disgust. _Birds_ stopped and stared at him. 

"What? What'd I say?" 

"Has he gotten crazier in the last decade or so?" Hawkeye asked Ringleader. 

"Duquesne hit him in the head when you...uh...left. Hasn't really been right since." 

"Hawkeye. Flank," Mockingbird said quietly. 

They'd been in pretty good sync _before_ the Professor let them touch minds; now they basically had one thought process between them. It was intoxicating: Hawkeye didn't even have that with Black Widow and they'd been partnered for most of their adult lives. 

"Right. Hold," he responded in the same tone. One hand flicked an arrow head and dropped it at his feet. He held his breath, knowing Bobbi was doing the same. Smoke billowed up around them. They both leapt forward, not away or to the side, plowing through the Death-Throws like Tenpin's bowling balls. He practically felt Mockingbird elbow Oddball in the throat on her way past. 

Cross's more traditional mercenaries had been flanking them as the Death-Throws talked. Running straight through had taken them past the cut off. They sprinted, side by side, Hawkeye barely in the lead and laughing wildly as he ran. Mockingbird's own laughter was high and bright as a child's. As one they cornered to the right, past a parked car and fled down an alley. Hawkeye kicked the back door of a convenience store open and they sprinted together down the fluorescent lit aisle. The clerk yelled in shock, a small group of youths in front of the counter ducking away in every direction. One of them just stood and stared--a young Pakistani girl in conservative clothing, her face radiant with worship even in the brief seconds the heroes were in the store. Out on the next street, they took shelter behind a dumpster. 

Mockingbird's hand appeared in his vision, holding a small selection of chocolate bars. He snatched two of them, cramming peanut butter cups into his mouth as they sat on the cement, giggling. 

"I threw down a twenty, no worries," Mockingbird gasped in his ear, her own mouth full nougat and cookie. "Look at this." 

She held out a flyer, torn from the bulletin board by the door. 

_Filming today! New reality show "Celebrity Fight Club! With Special Appearance by one of the Avengers!"_

"Jesus! That's brilliant! I gotta tell that one to Widow, what a perfect cover!" Hawkeye ejaculated. 

"I love working with professionals," Mockingbird agreed. 

"You're the strat/tac genius here, birdie. What next?" 

"I can use the camotech again, at least for a few minutes. I think...a fair field and no favors? I hope it's empty." She pointed down the alley, toward a walled stadium. "It's baseball by the way." 

"What?" 

"My favorite sport. I like baseball. And horse racing. And snooker. I like playing football more than watching it. I like cooking shows and science fiction. My favorite flavors are garlic and ginger and honey; hot green peppers, mango salsa, dark chocolate. I like salty more than sweet. I drink red wine and dark beer and black tea with milk and honey. Anything else?" 

"Well, yeah but we'll figure the rest out. We've got time." 

"Assuming we survive this."

"Always assuming that." 

Hawkeye levered himself to his feet, held out his hand to her. She took it, her calluses as hard as his but in different spots. On their feet they just looked at each other, both smiling. This was right; this was good. This was all as it should be. Alive, together, fighting. Everything was right in the world. 

They leaned in, eyes locked and never wavering. 

A red juggling ball impacted the wall next to their heads, exploding the brick into razor sharp shards. They both leapt to one side, landed and rolled. Hawkeye came to his knees. 

"So, this is what--how many times--something has stopped us from kissing?" 

"At least three." 

"We are being trolled by the universe," he said with a sigh. 

"Run now. Complain later." 

They set their weapons and sprinted for the stadium. As they ran the lights flickered on in the trailing sunlight. The first twenty four hours of their lives together was over; day two coming up. 

The Death-Throws caught up enough to see Bobbi shoot open the vehicle gate at the side of the stadium and their prey disappear into the short tunnel leading to the field itself. It was set up for baseball, the rich brown dirt of the infield breaking the visual line of the grass even from a few blocks away. They made it to the gate themselves in short order, all of them still juggling their various objects. Oddball was surging ahead, his face set in an expression of madness. 

As they erupted onto the third base line they saw Hawkeye jump the fence into the bullpen in right field and go for the open door to the area under the stands. 

"Go go go!" Ringleader yelled. "Before he can take high ground!" 

They all kicked it up a notch, surging across the thick slippery grass in a clump. 

As they crossed into the outfield, a patch of grass blurred and changed, turned dark blue and white and gold and red. 

Mockingbird unfolded from her crouch, the camotech field shedding from her back like water. Blood streamed from her nose as she rose, both batons out and extended in her hands.

"Batter up" she said, wry and calm. Her right hand snapped out, there was a metal on metal _crack_ and one of Bombshell's grenades went straight up out of her hand. As any group of reasonably intelligent people would when confronted with wildly flying live ordnance and a crazy woman wielding blunt objects, the Death-Throws tried to scatter. 

Her second strike caught Oddball in the hip, spinning him in a complete circle before he fell, screaming. His juggling balls cascaded to the ground around the group, two of them exploding as they struck the dirt. Tenpin had to hurl himself out of the way of a third, landing back in the dirt of the infield. 

Bombshell grabbed for her grenade, instinctively as a juggler, putting her out of the fray for an instant. 

Mockingbird threw herself into a full fencers lunge and speared five of Ringleader's rings out of the air with a baton, like a carnival game, then turned and whipped them at Knick-knack. The razor sharp edges diced the current motley group of objects he was tossing, sending shoe leather, the hilt of a hunting knife, a doll's head and apple slices spraying in several directions. She turned the lunge into a tuck and roll, bringing her up next to Bombshell, whom she had to look up at. 

"Wow, you really are tall," Bobbi said in a conversational tone. "Have you considered modeling?" 

The other woman snarled and tried punched Mockingbird but she had caught her grenades so her hands were momentarily full. Bobbi smiled sweetly, plucked one of them out of her grip and pulled the pin.

"Fire, as they say, in ze hole," she said and dropped the explosive at her feet. 

Right next to several of Oddball's fallen weapons. 

Bombshell screamed and ran, knocking over Tenpin again as he finally got to his feet. Ringleader grabbed Oddball by the arm and heaved him away from the blast area. Knickknack was already sprinting back the way they came. 

Mockingbird simply stepped away, turned, crouched and threw her trench coat over her head, making a little enclosure. 

The grenade exploded, setting off the rigged juggling balls, making a rolling wave of sound that bounced off the walls and bleachers like a physical thing.

The flying grass, dirt and shrapnel rained down on the juggling villains, causing superficial wounds and stunning all of them but the fleeing Knick-knack. Mockingbird stood up, took her fingers out of her ears and dusted herself off, the super-Kevlar lining of her jacket and body armor having protected her from the shock wave. She smiled at the chaos she'd created, then picked up one of Tenpin's now extinguished bowling pins, sighted carefully down the field and hurled it in a graceful arc. 

It impacted on the top of Knick-knack's head, knocking him sprawling and motionless into the nearby dugout. 

She turned and walked towards the bleachers. At the fence line, Hawkeye was sprawled across two seats, his feet up, applauding. Somehow, somewhere, he'd found a container of popcorn and returned to tossing buttery kernels into his mouth. Mockingbird clipped her batons together, extended them and vaulted the fence, landing neatly next to him and scarfing a handful of the treat. 

"You didn't feel the need to, you know, _do_ anything just then sport?" she mumbled around the popcorn. 

"Didn't look like you needed any help," he grinned at her, upending the bag and finishing it off.

"You..." she shook her head at him, something like wonder on her face. "You trusted me to take care of that? Didn't compromise your manhood, letting the woman take out your personal enemies?" 

"That's the thing about having team-mates, Mocky. If you can't trust them to do their jobs, you shouldn't be working with them. And, no, my manhood is just fine watching you put down that bunch of clowns. Hell, my manhood is pretty enthusiastic about the whole thing." His grin went into "leer" territory, dreamy and sweet. "If we can just get a couple damn hours of privacy without someone trying to kill one of us, I can give you a full presentation. With visual aids." 

"Couple hours? Not long enough. I'd block out at least a full twelve hour shift. And meal breaks." 

"You'll have to sign a waiver," he breathed, his eyes alight.

"Maybe a binding contract. You'll have to counter sign." 

"Agreed! Agreed!" 

They both laughed, slightly nervously, the implications of everything they'd been thinking and feeling about each other laid as bare as two professional paranoids could handle. 

Hawkeye reached out and took her left hand in his, stroking each of her fingers in turn. 

"I don't wear things on my hands, birdie" he said softly, apparently apropos of nothing. "Can't interfere with my grip at all. You're the same way, right?" 

"Yeah. But I was never much of one for symbols anyway." Then she sighed. "I'd try to kiss you but the fucking sky would probably ignite. Leave the sim out of the phone. Leave the ID card in your pocket. We're walking distance to the Tower now, a few hours maybe. It's a nice night, it'll keep our profile low, protect the civilians. And give us time to talk." 

She looked at him, her expression open and honest, her eyes filled with a whirling mix of hope, fear, joy and excitement. Hawkeye felt his own soul start to churn with the same emotions. 

They left the field by the back entrance, slipping lightly into the falling darkness, avoiding the rest of Cross's mercenaries with deft precision. Arm in arm, Bobbi's golden head settled gently on Hawkeye's shoulder as though they had always walked that way. 

He breathed deep, the scent of her hair worming its way directly into his reptile brain. He had trouble walking straight for a moment, then ruthlessly suppressed the sensations. 

If the world had any goodness in it at all, he'd have time to show her what she meant to him, soon enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, that's Kamala Khan in the store, if anyone was wondering :-)


	8. Hours 29-32: You're little compared to me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A peaceful walk to Avengers Tower. This is going to end well, right?

The night was kind to Hawkeye and Mockingbird as they walked towards the looming presence of Avengers Tower, across the water in Manhattan. It was warm and calm, the noises of urban life slowly falling to a quieter, gentler level. They were headed towards the city that never slept but for the time they walked in a bubble of peace and ease.   
    
They talked a little, though it seemed the further they walked together the less they needed or wanted to say. There was no urgency in them now, no frantic fear; their half-joking exchange back in the stadium felt like the most sacred of promises now. Hawkeye kept her hands in his, stroking and squeezing them, reveling in their strength, the thick callus in odd places, the little rough patches of scar tissue on her palms and wrists. For herself, Mockingbird let herself settle into his gait--in a few blocks she could have doubled him against a biometric analysis, other than the height and muscle difference.   
    
Here and there some injury from the last day would catch up to them: her shoulders were still strained from being suspended and he noticed she clearly favored her left side, at least psychosomatically. The clawed man had cut him in a few places and the wound on his back had opened enough during that scuffle he felt the dried blood sticking to his undershirt.   
    
She told him all about her last SHIELD mission, about being attacked by her own team, little oblique sentences that built a vivid picture for a former black ops field agent. His chest clenched when she spoke of the combat shotgun going off behind her, the knowledge that if she was dying she had to last long enough to kill all these people who had been seconds before her colleagues and almost friends.   
    
He recalled Budapest, the big one that had almost killed him and Black Widow (and her, he found out, since she had been leading an adjunct team in Szekesfehervar staring down a Hungarian Special Forces squad intent on taking out the SHIELD assets in the capitol; because of her they had arrived exactly forty five minutes too late).   
    
"So you were saving my ass before I even knew you existed?" he murmured, snickering into her hair. He was apparently not going to be allowed to kiss her but he could buss the top of her head, feeling the silky slide of her golden tresses against his chin. He was looking forward to letting those flow through his hands as she knelt over top of him, or he cradled her from behind. 

Her breath was slow and deep, her nose up against his chest as though she were checking the weave of his shirt for minute variations. "I think you still have me beat on that, sport. If they'd interrupted the two of you--"

"Ungh. Yeah. World War III. But I remember how bad our field reports were before and after you."

"I gave good analyst." 

"Actually, that's true. I wonder Fury ever risked you in the field--" 

"As if--" she started angrily. 

"Then I saw you fight, " he interrupted, squeezing her shoulders. "And I was just mad at him for keeping you bottled up as long as he did." 

When he let her go, he heard her exhale hugely. "I was mad at him for that too. But I'm more mad at him for keeping us apart. " 

They slide through the streets in mostly silence for a while, the glittering towers of New York growing nearer. 

Hawkeye went away at some point and Clint told her about his parent's death, about Barney, about Swordsman and Trickshot. He talked about an angry young man, self destructive , constantly in trouble -- who'd had every single person he should have been able to rely on betray or abandon him-- being folded into SHIELD and finding not just a place where what he did was valued but people who valued _him_. Meaning. Discipline. Purpose. Focus. Partnership. 

He spoke obliquely of Natasha and their time together, of how happy he was, and how insecure she made him and how he had seen the writing on the wall from day one and tried to paint it over. But she kept cleaning it off until the day they had come to the point he had to read it and...as he spoke he could feel the barely sutured cracks on his heart ache and split. Years of solid, productive, effective partnership; years of sacrifice and concern and deep friendship and knowing that his first love hadn't been returned still _hurt_. Unbearably. 

Mockingbird had stopped then, and put her arms around him and just held him tightly as he shook for a moment. He felt her strong arms tighten against his sides, prop up his spine, and felt the pain ease and slide away into the darkness.

"What are your dealer breakers?" she said to him, her voice soft against his chest.

"Deal breakers?"

"Yeah, there have to be things that would make you say, nope, done here. Mine are pretty simple."

"What are they?" he asked, curious and wary.

"Well, sport, just three of'em: don't lie to me. Don't cheat on me. And never try to hit me in anger."

"Wow, that first one must have caused a lot of trouble for you, in this line of work." He grinned broadly into her hair. He could do all those things. He wanted to live up to those ideals. Even the monogamy bit.

"Oh, you can lie to me for missions! Of course you can. You can lie about _operational_ things. I mean never lie to me about emotions. And you better try your damnedest to hit me sparring or I'll be very very pissed off. In return...well, you'll never have reason to doubt my loyalty, my honesty or my fidelity."

"If you never break that deal, I'll be the happiest little archer in the universe."

"That hypothesis is unverifiable and therefore scientifically null," she mused.  
"Oooohh, talk nerdy to me baby," he whispered in her ear. She pushed him away, shaking her head. He blew into her ear again, snorting. 

She giggled like a little girl and swiped at him coquettishly with one paw. "Tickles! No fair!"

He grabbed her and breathed in her ear one more time, to a shrieking chorus of happy noises and a few light rabbit punches to his sides. 

"Get a room!" was yelled from a passing car. They laughed together and started walking again.

"Gods, I haven't had any place to call home since...well, since before I went to London. Just a helicarrier bunk and a few safe houses."

"Same here. It's bizarre, let me tell you. I can get...stuff."

"And things."

"Stuff and things," he agreed.

"I was engaged once," she said abruptly, looking at him with a wary expression. "Years ago; I was young and soooooo fucking stupid. He was an asshole. He cheated on me, committed treason and tried to pin it on me."

"Excellent. Where is he now?"

"In prison."

"Which prison? Not that I would plan to go there and murder him or anything."

"I don't know--no, seriously, I don't know. If I knew I'd already have made a field trip to bash his face in."

Hawkeye stared at her for a moment, then nodded firmly. "That was the truth, right? I'm trying to learn your tells."

"I have different ones depending on who's in charge in here," she said sheepishly.

"How many do _you_ have? I've got...um...three when I'm crazy tired or hurting."

"Six, but Barbara is going away and well, the last one? I just sorta met her last night. I think she's all the others put together."

"Oh, that's a nice feeling. I remember when Hawkeye and Clint finally aligned--"

"Clint." Bobbi's voice was hard and soft at the same time, with a depth of emotion trembling at the edge of tears. "Clint, I met her because of you. The solid one. The one with integrity. Directly because of you."

He stopped and looked away, his throat working and eyes wet. "That is--" his voice broke and he turned his back completely, then spun back around the face her. "That is the best thing anyone has ever said to me."

When he pulled her into his arms this time, there was no play in the gesture. It was fierce and possessive, all but crushing her into his body. She sobbed once, her voice catching like his.

"Th-th-there's so much I need to tell you and some of it I can't--" 

When he cut her off she seemed grateful to be interrupted, a dark shadow crossing across her eyes. Something there he would have to look out for later, he was sure.

"I know. We can't just vomit it all out at once. It'll all come organically, I swear. All the stories of our lives. Except that they helped form you, they don't matter. I don't know your past; don't need to. I know you, my...my little bird."

"I'm not little," she said in a grumpy child's voice but when he pushed back to look at her face she was grinning.

"You're little compared to me." He tapped her on the nose. "Little birdie."  
    
"We need to walk faster," she said, shifting uncomfortably, her tongue flicking out to moisten her lips. 

They made it all the way to "Avengers Plaza", the pedestrian promenade that approached the south side of the Tower for two blocks. Stark had purchased the land from the city--it had been literally demolished in the Battle--and turned it into a walking area with little grassy spots, trees and vendor booths. In the winter, they flooded the very centre and turned it into an ice skating path.   
    
Clint had taken her hand and was gesturing upwards, pointing towards The Nest as his floor was called when her face went blank and still, cold as ice.

 _Mockingbird just took over_ he thought.

"Hawkeye, don't move," she said. 

That was when he saw the red laser dot appear on her forehead. 

"You have one too." He released her grip, both of them holding their hands away from their bodies. There was no reason to show someone you had drawn a bead on them unless you had something to say to them. And Cross was a marksman.

A small woman walked past them and tucked a live cell phone unto Clint's hand. It was on speaker.

"I"m glad the two of you are as quick on the uptake as you are with your fists," Cross's voice said. "I do very much want to speak to both of you, Hawkeye, you and your--lady friend. But I will splatter either of you all over the rather lovely landscaping of that little flower bed behind you if you twitch in the wrong direction. Nod if you understand."

They both nodded.

"So, make a choice. Yes means you both live a little longer. No means brains on the pavement. I suspect you are both capable of calculating the odds of one of these bullets missing. Please ask yourself how it will feel when it's the one aimed at you that goes awry?"

Hawkeye and Mockingbird exchanged a single glance, identical quirks to the edge of their mouths. They both nodded, yes.

"We got cocky, sport," Mockingbird said in a rueful voice.

"I told you we were being trolled by the universe," he responded.

"Yes, how very stoic of you both, now shut up. Madam, keeping your hands away from your body, turn and walk towards the black suv pulled up in the alley to your left."

Mockingbird did as she was told. Hawkeye watched her dispassionately on the surface, internally screaming like a wild man. 

As she reached the suv three goons stepped out, two of them flanking her and the third pressing a taser to the back of her neck. She went down like she'd been pithed and the other two caught her, throwing her roughly into the back of the vehicle. The entire thing was so smooth and fast--partially obstructed in the alley--no one on the plaza but Hawkeye saw anything.

The suv engine started up and pulled away at a sedate pace; it was replaced by an identical vehicle. Hawkeye's internal screaming became a high thin whine in his throat, his fingers twitching. 

"Now you, Barton. There's a good boy. Don't worry, I have a use for both of you, after the bullshit you've put me through today. You're not getting out of this quickly."

 _As long as Bobbi's there with me._ Hawkeye said to himself as he paced calmly towards his potential death sentence. He'd made this kind of walk a thousand times, a lifetime of angry threats and virulent hatred ringing in his ears. He could all but feel the laser dot following him, directly between his eyes. _If we don't get to live together, at least we can die together._

Then the taser charge hit his spine and he went down into darkness, wishing he could see her face one more time.  
 


	9. Hours 33-36 (and beyond): You think I'm an idiot?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> End game -- Crossfire reveals his dastardly plan.

Hawkeye swam up towards the light, pain in his head, pain in his arms, pain in his heart. If he opened his eyes and didn't see a flash of golden hair, a white-striped body suit, a cheeky grin--he was going to start crying.

Or maybe killing.

"What the hell do you mean you can't search her?" 

That was Cross's voice, angry. The response was in a woman's timbre, high and frightened.

_Not the woman he needed to hear._

"We can't--we can't get the suit off of her. It shocks anyone who tries!" Her voice ran higher, edging into panic. "Phillips can't use his arm after the last try!"

"Fine, leave it. Leave it. She can't do anything right now and it might be interesting to see if she maintains enough fine motor control...just go. Upstairs and get the systems ready."

Hawkeye took a deep breath, tasting recycled air, oil, iron. He opened his eyes.

The first thing he saw was a large room, three stories at least, with bare metal walls. The top level to the left of--well, of where he was chained spread-eagle to a wall, to put it bluntly--was fronted with glass and let into a brightly lit lab with computer banks and other equipment. At this angle, he could see several of the ceiling tiles were broken.

Back to the beginning. That was where he'd met Bobbi. 

Directly across the room from him--maybe fifty feet--Mockingbird was chained to the other wall. Cross was standing between him and the back of a technician was disappearing through a sliding door under the lab window. Cross was wearing a tactical suit of his own, mostly bright red with white stripes. He looked good, actually, very athletic and powerful, more so than he seemed in his business gear.

He was currently faced away from Hawkeye, studying the apparently still unconscious Mockingbird.

Then he stepped over and slapped her across the face, hard.

On of the bolts holding Hawkeye's left arm manacle to the wall creaked and loosened as his whole body convulsed with the need to grab Cross by the throat and compress until he stopped breathing.

Mockingbird's head had whipped around and on the return her eyes were open. She grinned, ruefully.

"That works sometimes," she offered.

"Don't play me for a fool, bitch. Who are you anyway?"

"Mockingbird."

"When did the Avengers recruit you?"

"Freelance, sport. So manhandling me is one thing but how's about you let the gentleman go? He's got mean friends, I hear."

"You think I'm an idiot?" 

"Well, yeah, actually."

Cross raised his hand again.

"You touch her one more time, Cross, I will beat you to death with your own arm," Hawkeye called out.

Cross turned to face him. Over his heart he had a symbol, mirroring Hawkeye's "A": a sniper reticle.

"Oh, good, you're awake. We can begin the first test." Cross paused dramatically, looking back and forth between them. They were busy studying each other, searching for injuries, ignoring him. He puffed out an affronted breath, then continued. "Let's see how well you do with your smartass comments and threats when it all begins."

Cross stomped out of room, pausing at the doorway. "And it's Crossfire to the two of you."

Hawkeye and Mockingbird looked at each other, then back at him. 

"Poser," they said simultaneously. 

Crossfire seemed apoplectic that he couldn't slam the sliding door behind him. 

When it shut and audibly locked, the manacles holding the two heroes to the walls disengaged. A heartbeat later they met in the middle of the otherwise empty room, both stumbling and aching, limbs numb from the chains and shaky from the electrical charge. 

Hawkeye pulled Mockingbird into his chest, his whole body trembling with relief. "You all right? He hurt you?"

"I'm okay, sport, I'm okay, are you all right?" She leaned in, rested her head on his shoulder and whispered in his ear: "My suit won't shock you. I added you to the control system back at the apartment."

He suppressed a grin and whispered back. "Here's to forward thinkers."

An audio system clicked on above them. "How touching. Heroes in love. That will make this test even more interesting."

Mockingbird looked up at the observation window. "What test Cross? You went to a lot of trouble to set up Hawkeye, what test would be worth that?"

Hawkeye stiffened at her words, then began to nod slowly. The whole thing made more sense if he'd been the actual target from the beginning. The invitation to visit the site; the sensation it was all a front put on for him. The dog-and-pony show with security. The drones that had been ready and waiting, the small army of thugs. The surveillance on the Tower Plaza. 

The Death-Throws. No other reason to employ an obscure and barely competent team of clowns: he been hoping--or been told--that Hawkeye would still trust them. 

Oh, hell. He hadn't rescued Mockingbird. _She'd gotten between him and a bullet--physically and metaphorically._

"If you were always after me, Cross, let the lady go. Once she's free I'll be your good little test subject."

"You did not just say that," Mockingbird hissed at him. "You jackass! As if I would go anyway without you now!"

Cross laughed at them. "Too late for that, Barton. Besides, now I don't have to throw one of my own men into the room with you. This will be so much more conclusive, as well as satisfying, when I can induce one of you to kill the other. If I were a betting man--well, given your respective hand-to-hand performances so far and the fact Hawkeye has been stripped of his bow--I suspect the woman will be the sole survivor. So I will have achieved my original goal--to weaken and disrupt the Avengers--given my new equipment a thorough kick-test and I'll have you mentally damaged and physically broken at the end of it, Mockingbird. Then you'll sing for me."

"Every single person who's threatened me over the years uses that line. Every. Single. One." Mockingbird looked up at the glass and made an elaborate gesture of contempt and disgust. 

"And if you die, I'll still have Hawkeye to run through the ringer until his heart or his mind gives out. I'm still not sure which will be more useful to me." The audio cut out with a click, replaced with an annoying thin whine from the speakers.

Neither of them moved. If they were going to die, they were going to spend as much time hugging as possible first.

"I still have some things in the suit. Just small stuff," Mockingbird muttered. 

"I do too, I think. My tac vest has concealed pockets."

"Anything that could take out the door?" she said, her mouth against his throat.

"No," he said, in rising irritation. What did she expect of him? A concealed grenade?

"Well, neither to I so one of us better think of something," she snapped, pushing away, her face twisted with anger.

"No, I thought I'd just stand here until Cross shot me in the head," Hawkeye snorted at her, cold and sarcastic.

"Don't you take that tone with me, I've been saving your hide for the last day, over and over and all you've done is eat popcorn and snark at me!" Mockingbird shoved him with both hands. "I never asked you to interfere, you white knighting asshole."

"You'd be nothing but ground meat right now if it wasn't for me, you arrogant cow!" Hawkeye's hands balled into fists.

Mockingbird stepped further away, her own hands clenched and raised. "Arrogant? I'm not the one who's trying to make a piece of string into a viable weapons system!"

"No, you just hit people with sticks like a fucking toddler!"

They stared at each other, panting now, rage building in both their faces.

The whine from the speakers had faded until it was almost inaudible.

Mockingbird gasped, pressed her hands to her head. "That noise, I didn't--I didn't want to say that. I didn't mean that..."

"Oh, make up your mind you dumb bitch," Hawkeye snarled. "Just commit to something for once in your miserable life."

Her face cleared, became cold and hard as steel. "I'll commit to kicking your bony ass."

And back to the beginning Hawkeye and Mockingbird went: their association had started in violence, almost playful then--light-hearted questing, testing abilities and reactions.

Now they circled each other like caged tigers, anger and hatred ascendant. Hawkeye struck first, with no warning, his powerful legs driving him forward between one breath and the next. His fist snapped out and up driving into her ribs with crushing force. She barely managed to give with the strike so he merely winded her rather than breaking bone. She flipped backwards desperately and he charged with her, his hind brain screaming at him to stay close. In close he could use his massive upper body strength to crush, to rend and tear. 

Halfway through a backflip, Mockingbird changed momentum, rolling her legs down and to the side so she could spin in place on her hands, like a break dancer. Hawkeye couldn't adjust fast enough and she scythed his legs out from under him. He tumbled and rolled and she landed on his back, her knees on either side of his torso, her arm wrapping around his throat. He slammed his head backwards, wanting to break her nose _make her bleed, see her bleed, hurt her, hurt her hurt her hurt her_...

But she had her head tucked next to his, the bend of her elbow on his throat, squeezing, squeezing. She was hissing in his ear, like some huge snake on his back--he bucked his hips up, scrambled onto his hands and then reared up onto his knees. She clung to his back like a starfish clings to a rock and the world started going black around the edges, losing oxygen, his thoughts going slow and weak...

He didn't want to hurt Mockingbird. 

He wanted to kill her.

Clint reached back behind him with one arm, clamped it on the back of her neck and pried the one hundred eighty pound professional killer off his back as though he was scratching an itch. He heaved and she was flying through the air to slam against the wall, falling stunned for a moment to the ground. He charged again, his mouth open in a snarl of killing pleasure.

Mockingbird had been playing possum.

As he reached her, she kicked out, her combat boots striking him full in the stomach, taking the air out of his lungs--still starved for oxygen from her nearly successful guillotine choke. He staggered backwards, gasping. She rose to her feet like she was on castors...and backed away from him, her hands up.

"The noise. Clint, the noise. Sub-sonics. Induced emotional state," she sobbed.

"Stop acting like you're smarter than me!" Hawkeye howled, swiping for her like a bear pawing at a hunter.

The hum from the speakers grew louder again.

Mockingbird's face cleared, back to cold still rage. "I was smarter than you when I was in grade school you dumb carny hick!"

There was no art, no joy left in either of them, just the scientific brutality of martial arts: combat arts, not for show, trained until the motions were embedded in the bone and sinew. The only thing that mattered was _hurting the other person_. 

They exchanged blows in a blinding flurry, both moving so fast it was hard to tell who's fists belonged to who. Twice Clint got his hands on her, grabbing a shoulder, an arm. Twice she twisted away from him, kicking and feinting, but the second time at the price of dislocated fingers. She landed a punch to the inside of his bicep, a raking snap of her knuckles that numbed his whole arm. He got his hands up around her throat, and if his left arm hadn't been compromised he could have crushed her windpipe right then. She managed to smash his arms away with desperate, panicked strength.

Staggering back, they both trailed blood on the ground: split lips. Nearly broken noses. Old cuts from the trials of the last day open and weeping again. Mockingbird had clearly gotten the worst of it, clutching her side, weaving on her feet. 

"Well," came Cross' voice from the speaker. "I must say I'm impressed you two. It must be something about being a violent thug for a living but you are the best subjects I've ever had in here. It usually takes half an hour or more to work people up to murderous rage. I can't wait to see what it does to one of the enhanced humans popping up these days. Your colleagues for instance, Hawkeye."

Clint's fury addled brain cleared with the shock of horror that slammed into him. The Avengers would come looking for him. They would come to Cross and he would lead them into his trap. He imagined Cap twisted from man of honor to a frothing maniac, using his powerful body and even more powerful brain to murder and destroy. Iron Man, Falcon, broadcasting this brain-melting signal across the whole city from above, laughing while it burned. Natasha, cold and calm, turned back into the vicious killer she'd been when they met. Thor--worse, Bruce--out of control, their powers spawning literal storms of destruction.

They would come looking for him---if he was still alive.

If he was dead, his ID card would activate the "flatline" signal. Cross couldn't know that and it couldn't be blocked or muted. He wouldn't be able to bluff or fool the Avengers then. They would come in and open his operation like a can of tuna, taking every step with a combination of calculation and violence that would thwart any clever scheme he might have. They would find his corpse...and hopefully a living Mockingbird, to tell their story. 

She could take his place on the team. He wouldn't be leaving them in the lurch. 

He'd have to let Bobbi kill him.

"Mockingbird, you gotta--" he said, reaching his hand out to her. Her eyes were wide, clear--she was back in control for a moment too. She reached out to him as though they were both trying to drag the other to the surface of a lake.

"Ah ah ahhh, none of that now," Cross tutted at them and the whine in the air became unbearable.

Hawkeye's hand closed into a fist and he charged her again, murder in his eyes, his heart. 

She stood her ground and he laughed at her death wish, wanting to taste her blood as she died...

At the last second Bobbi leapt _towards him_ , between his arms and cuffed him on both sides of his head, her hands cupped and slapping with astonishing force. The sheer momentum of his body bowled her backwards but for a moment, her mouth was next to his right ear.

From a buzzing, fuzzy distance he heard her say: "Holdout."

Mockingbird stumbled back as his chest impacted hers and before she could recover herself he had her wrapped in a bear hug. The tendons in his neck popped out as he compressed her ribs, her head snapping backwards in a scream of agony. 

Hawkeye whipped around and hurled her across the room to skid and slam into the wall again, truly stunned this time. 

As he completed his spin, he extended the holdout batons he had taken out of her back holster, concealed under the spine reinforcements of her tactical suit, and threw them at the observation window above them. 

The first struck the glass and stuck, quivering. A spider web of cracks spiraled out from around it.

The second struck the end of the first like it had been magnetized.

The window pane shattered inward.

From inside the room, Cross screamed "My eye!". The whine in the air cut out sharply.

And Mockingbird came to her feet and sprinted across the room. Hawkeye stood still as a statue and felt her leap behind him as a cloven rush of air, her boots touching his shoulders surprisingly lightly. She walked the wall up to the broken window and through it.

He heard the sound of furniture being overturned, men and women yelling. It went on for some time, Hawkeye idly tapping his fingers against his legs as he waited.

A body came flying out of the window: Cross, his red and white body suit splatted with blood, his hands clutching his face. He tumbled and rolled, screaming in pain.

A second later Mockingbird came back down through window herself. She was holding her real batons in one hand and Hawkeye's bow and quiver in the other. She had a tablet computer tucked under her arm. Landing lightly next to Clint, her eyes bright despite the purpling bruises on her face and throat, she handed off their weapons. 

"The still conscious techs up there are running for their lives. I smashed the audio controls so they can't make us go Thunderdome on each other again. Here's your phone, hang on a minute before calling 911--I gotta hurt this guy."

Hawkeye smiled at her indulgently.

Mockingbird stalked over to Cross, balled up on the ground, blood leaking from around his fingers. She shoved him over on his back and used the tip of her boot to force his hands away from his face. A long shard of glass was sticking out of his left eye and she nudged it just a touch with her foot by accident as she flipped him over. He sobbed raggedly. 

Clint winced. Losing their eyes was a sniper's deepest nightmare. Even Mockingbird looked perturbed, recoiling.

"Cross," Mockingbird said gently, under the circumstances. "What's your pass code for the data file you lately extracted from a USB stick delivered via less than savory means to your possession? You know the one I'm talking about."

"Fuck you! My eye!"

"Cross, I really don't want to make crude threats right now. Give me the passcode. Then we call you an ambulance."

He blinked up at her, weeping tears of blood, and spat out a string of numbers. 

Mockingbird tapped away at the tablet--ironically, a Starktab.

"He's lying," Hawkeye said calmly before she could hit 'done'.

"Yeah, I know, I made the only conscious tech up there give me the real code before I knocked her out. The data file is already winging its gentle way to -- our mutual friend. I'm about to erase his security settings with the 'clear all' code he just gave me." She hit a final command with a flourish. "Et, voila! Cross Enterprises is now an open book for the police!" She looked down at the would-be super villain. "Don't fuck with professionals your first rodeo, _Crossfire_."

He snarled at her, trying to push himself up. Mockingbird produced one of the hand held conductive energy weapons his thugs has used on them and delicately leaned down to apply it to his chin. He convulsed and collapsed, blood dripping gently down his face. 

Hawkeye couldn't explain to the 911 dispatcher why he was laughing.

The next few hours were a flurry of uniforms: police, fire and ambulance all converged on the industrial park. They were eager to assist the Avenger asking for their help and Hawkeye was busy doing PR damage control, corralling thugs (the Death Throws had split like a fault line the instant Cross went down) and diverting the majority of attention away from the suddenly remote and nervous Mockingbird. He should have been exhausted by the time the local detectives were done interviewing them both but a strange light energy filled him; Bobbi seemed more agitated than she had when they were trying to kill each other.

He was watching her pacing outside under the late afternoon sun when his phone rang. It played the theme from "Shaft". She looked up, expression grim, and held out her hand. He answered the call as she walked towards him. 

"Put Morse on, Barton," snapped Fury's voice from the speaker. 

Bobbi took the phone out of his hand and stepped to the side. Hawkeye looked away, trying not to be obvious about eavesdropping--and actually having trouble hearing her anyway. She'd popped one of his eardrums with her successful hail mary attempt to block the sonics back underground. 

Fury sounded loud and annoyed. Bobbi sounded quietly furious. Clint heard her say very clearly -- the kind of clearly associated to someone with a bad temper controlling themselves rigidly -- "I don't _care_ Nick. PULL THE FUCKING ORDER. And the Interpol warrants--how do I know? Because MI13 sent two rated agents to fucking kill me in Sydney, and one of them was _him_ you raging--"

She paused. "Okay, thank you. What? I'm sorry, I didn't hear that?"

Hawkeye turned and looked at her, cataloguing the expression on her face with gratitude to Fury. Now he knew what she looked like when she was _really mad_.

"Nick, take your job offer and your eye patch and shove them up your--"

She stopped and looked at the phone, then at Hawkeye. "He hung up on me," she remarked with exaggerated offense. 

He grinned. She handed the phone back to him, her hands trembling. "I...thank you. I'll...I'm...I'm not wanted any more. By anyone."

Hawkeye stepped towards her, his arms coming up. "I want you," he said simply, the middle word loaded with every meaning possible.

She sidestepped him, her eyes stony and he froze in shock. "It's okay, Clint. It's okay. I'm not...I'm not stupid. I'm not going to hold you to anything. No promises made under the circumstances we were dealing with could ever be binding. It's okay. You're not...you don't owe me anything."

"Just my life, my sanity and probably the lives of all my team mates by proxy. Not even sure I can count high enough to value all that." He dropped his hands, watching her warily, getting ready for her to run. Back to the beginning indeed.

"I owe you the same. We're even. We can be...we can be friends, right?" It was Bobbi speaking now, he could tell. She looked younger, some how, and more vulnerable. 

"No." He said sharply. "We can't."

She stared at him, nodding convulsively...then turned and started to walk away. Plod, really, dejected. Head down like a whipped dog. She muttered something he didn't hear but he caught the edge of the way her lips were moving and saw two words that sent a spike of rage through him.

He leapt and grabbed her around the shoulders, spinning her into the nearest wall, leaning in to pin her wrists above her head. She struggled, uselessly. He could--and had--held _Steve_ motionless during sparring when he wasn't so furious he was literally seeing red. She might as well have been a kitten batting at string for all she could fight him just then. He waited till her reflexive struggles stopped, her eyes huge again. 

"You are not fucking worthless. You are not broken. You do not ever say that about yourself again, even if I can't hear you properly. You don't even get to think it, you understand? Answer me!"

"What the hell do you care?" she shouted at him, her eyes alive again, snapping with emotions he couldn't read.

"Because I love you, idiot!" He stopped, smiling now. "I love you Barbara. I love you Doctor Morse. I love you Agent 19. I love you Mockingbird. I love you Bobbi. I love all the yous in there and any you that might show up later. I love you." He laid his forehead against hers, eyes closed, his words thrumming through his skull into hers. "I love you. Never leave me, forever and ever. Please."

He heard her start to cry then, smelling salt and the peculiar scent of her hair: like green growing things mixed with warm spice. 

"Gods, I'm not such a cry-baby I swear, I've wept more the last two days than in the last two years," she sniffled.

"Jesus, I declare my eternal affection for you and that's what you're worried about?" he snickered against her cheek.

"Oh, yeah, sorry. It's just you seem so good reading my mind I forget you can't really. I...I l-l-l-love you too, Hawkeye. Clint. I do. I figured...you were out of my league is all."

"I'm out of your league? You're so high above me I can't see you without a telescope."

"It strikes me that mutual appreciation might not be a bad foundation for a--"

"A what? You are now socially obligated to say it, since I said 'I love you' first," he nodded against her face, rubbing their cheeks together. 

"A marriage," she said and he had never heard two words filled with such exultant joy before. His heart took wing and soared.

He stepped away and released her arms, which she immediately folded around his torso. She fit against him like the missing half of his soul. 

Hawkeye touched the call button on his phone. "Jarvis, can you do me an extra special secret don't-tell-anyone-at-the-Tower favor?"

"As long as it does not compromise my security settings, Hawkeye."

"Can you insert something into the New York Vital Statistics database? A marriage license, for instance?"

*****

Hawkeye stepped in front of Mockingbird as they made their way down the darkened, silent corridor to the private elevator in Avengers Tower.

"So why are we sneaking in?" Bobbi asked, sounding giddy.

"Because I'd like to get you into the Nest before anyone sees you...forgiveness, permission, you know the routine."

"And the only elevator to the private floors is that one?"

"Yeah, so hop to it, little bird." He turned around and smacked her across the thigh, playfully, then turned back.

The lights in the living room snapped on to their right. 

Hawkeye reached back and grabbed the Bobbi's hand.

"Change of plans, sprint for the elevator, don't look back. They can smell fear."

_(Read the outcome of all this in "Twelve Days of Barton" also on Archive Of Our Own)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is an epilogue coming by popular (well two people :-) ) request featuring Hawkeye and Mockingbird's first night together. 
> 
> Otherwise this leads directly into "Twelve Days of Barton" also on this fine site (written by your truly).
> 
> Any continuity errors between this account what Hawkeye and Mockingbird tell the other Avengers in any other story can be explained as...well, they're both covert ops and terminally cheeky. They're fucking with people.
> 
> Really. That's the reason. Not that the stories were written out of sequence. Nuh-uh.


	10. Hours Infinity +

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawkeye and Mockingbird's first night together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is unabashed SMUT and unabashed fluff. 
> 
> Lots of sexy times and emotion.

"Little bird, I ain't never letting you go."  
   
Clint kissed Bobbi again--well, they kissed each other, her enthusiasm and eagerness making his *ahem* heart leap. Somehow he found she had swung him around by increments and started backing him into the nearby wall. He pulled his head back as his shoulders hit the paint, grinning down at her. She smiled, wicked and sweet, leaned in to place her teeth on his throat, then slid them down to his chest. The hard edges surrounded by her soft mouth left a trail of fire against his skin.  
   
He heard a noise come out of his mouth that he'd never uttered before, high and thin like a dog staring at a treat held just out of reach. She snickered.  
   
"We have a little problem here," he gasped.  
   
"Yeah, you're still wearing underwear," she muttered, reaching for the waist of his boxers. He tightened his grip on her sides.  
   
"Yes!" he squeaked, panting, then burst out: "But safety!"  
   
"Oh!" Bobbi looked perturbed for a second and his brain started running through every likely spot in the Tower where he could find condoms, Tony would have some right? Maybe not, he had Pepper now, Nat would have some, she was always prepared and he wanted to make that call like he wanted to jam forks in his eyes, he really _wanted_ to go knock on Steve's door and ask because that would be both hilarious and _just possibly_ useful and a lifetime of teasing fodder in the bargain if it turned out Captain Moral Fibre had  _birth control_ on him when she smiled that wicked angel's smile again.  
   
She took his hand and slide it under the edge of his white shirt, against the downy skin of her lower stomach. His fingers found a raised scar, straight as a die, just under her belly button.  
   
"I had myself fixed right after I joined SHIELD. There are ways around it but...I'm no one's mother, Clint. At least not now. Are you okay with that?"  
   
"No, I married you to be my brood mare," he said in a serious voice.  
   
She punched him in the gut but lighter than he knew she could and they were both laughing when he straightened up.  
   
"Though," she mused, stroking her hands across his pectorals and abs, "I am very glad Jarvis can run blood tests that fast; I haven't exactly been living a sterile life for the last few years. Just drinking water in Madripoor felt like a test of the immune system."  
   
"Last logistical concern," he said, grabbing her wrists to stop her from making his brain melt. "We are both kicked to shit. We may--I may--need to restrain the more athletic impulses tonight. I will shoot myself in the head if I hurt you, little bird. I'm serious."  
   
Bobbi stepped back, her hands still held in his. She looked yearning and open, her strong face softened with both desire and love. Her eyes were wide, the scent of her surrounding him like a cloud of perfume. "I know you would never hurt me to hurt me Clint, but this isn't going to be the last time we...bang...banged up. If something's bad, I'll tell you. Pain isn't...I'm not _into_ pain but I don't mind some...I like it. Just a little. The way getting hit hard in sparring hurts but coming out of it fighting feels good. You know."  
   
"I do. I do know," he pulled her back into his embrace.  
   
"And I think I've proven I could probably mess you up if I tried. So, you gotta make sure you say something to me if I hurt you."  
   
"Always. I will whine like a little girl."  
   
"Mmmm," she muttered against his chest, licking at the blond hair dusted there, "yes you will. We have time, Clint. We have years and years of time. In twenty or thirty of them we might even need to start getting inventive."  
   
The future stretched out in front of him, filled with her: her blond hair slipping through his fingers, her mouth on his body like it was now. Her hand in his, walking down the street. Taking her shopping, buying her little gifts of candy and jewelry, watching her open presents tucked under a Christmas tree. Sparring with her in the gym, fast and hard, then showering together, soft soap and warm kisses intermingled. Seeing her standing next to Natasha, dressed to the nines for a night of clubbing; listening to her argue tactics with Steve and science with Tony and Bruce. Trying to drink Thor under the table; quizzing War Machine and Falcon about what it felt like to fly.  
   
Saving the world with her at his shoulder, team mate and hero and lover.  
   
His thoughts kept circling back to her eyes, blue-grey and stormy, whirling with life and intelligence. He would have to live up to the man he saw reflected in those eyes: brave, kind, funny. Passionate, tough, smart.  
   
He could do that, not for her, but with her. She made him the best man he had ever been.  
   
She had made her way to his abs, her hands tugging gently at his boxers, easing the elastic over his already stiff cock. She looked down then back up at him with a surprised expression, her lips pursed.  
   
"Goodness me, I knew little Hawkeye was an eager fellow but--wow sport. He's got some weight to him."  
   
"I told you he was enthusiastic."  
   
"And very shapely. Very...nicely...shaped." She cupped him like she was cradling a bird. "Who's a good little fellow then? Does someone wants a kiss?"  
   
"Yes," Clint choked out, his fists slamming against the wall hard enough to dent it.  
   
Bobbi, holding him lightly in both hands, settled gracefully onto her knees. She was still wearing his white shirt, open enough that when he looked down he could see the tip of her nose, the cleft between her generous breasts, the fall of the fabric to her thighs.  
   
It was unspeakably erotic.  
   
It got better.  
   
He'd been imagining this moment for the last two days, what it would feel like when she took him in her mouth. A blow job was a blow job, really, he'd decided. He was looking forward to it but was steadfastly refusing to build it up more than that.  
   
He forgotten what it felt like when your partner was not only sensitive to your physical reactions but smart and passionate themselves. He forgotten what making love with someone you _actually loved_ was like.  
   
She flicked her strong tongue against just the tip of his penis, one hand reaching down to cup his balls, kneading very lightly while hooking her thumb against the base of his shaft. His hands slammed into the wall again and he heard it crack.  
   
"If you're going to break the place, I'm going to have to stop," Bobbi breathed, leaning back a moment.  
   
Clint made an inarticulate sound that translated as "if you stop I will go insane why do you hate me?" in crazy noise speech, which she could apparently speak since her lips circled him again for a moment before she pressed his erection upwards and started sucking on the ridge of muscle that ran along the under side. He pressed his head into the wall like he was trying to jam his brain through it. He buried his fists against his own sides, his breath coughing out in ragged puffs.  
   
When she reached the tangle of curls at his groin she lapped all the way around his shaft like she was cleaning up an ice cream cone, then started to spiral upwards. Her free hand followed her mouth, her thumb and fore finger in a circle just tight enough to indent his hot skin in the wake of her tongue. When she got to the tip she leaned back in and took about half of him in her mouth, following it with her hand again, sucking lightly as she drew upwards.  
   
Only his superhuman ability to focus kept Clint from screaming and coming right then. He managed to grab at the last trailing edge of his sanity long enough to hook his hands under her armpits and haul her upright. He buried her traitor mouth against his chest, his whole body shaking.  
   
"Not...first...time...not...calm...down," he gasped.  
   
"I am calm, sport," she whispered, her hands stroking down to his thighs and inching towards his groin again.  
   
"Witch," he growled, grabbing her under the arms again and lifting her off her feet.  She responded by wrapping her legs around him, the edge of the white fabric riding up to her stomach, her mouth on his neck again. Clint staggered forward until his knees hit the bed and he let them fall onto it, managing to turn just enough not to land his fully body weight on her.  
   
She _giggled_ , squirming under him so that her thighs rubbed against the base of his ribs.  
   
"Oh. Dear. Christ. _Will you stop doing that for a second?_ " he yelled at her, sitting up. He held one hand out, fingers splayed, not quite touching the fabric and skin above her solar plexus. She tired to sit up herself, ran into the barrier, tried to shove it out of the way  and looked perturbed when his arm didn't even tremble. Wherever she moved he moved his hand until she gave up, glaring.  
   
"You fucking men and your upper body strength," she hissed.  
   
"I have to use every advantage I can, you demon from hell," he said, still half out of breath. "That was amazing but I don't want....not our first time together, okay? You can unleash that beautiful mouth as much as you like after tonight but...please...little bird...let this first night be me loving you, all over. Let me make you come so hard you forget your name. Let me worship at the altar of this body. I know more about how you fight than how you fuck. _I need to study._ "  
   
She stared at him, her eyes huge as an animated character, her mouth trembling. "Consider me an open book, " she said then held out her arms to him almost in supplication.  
   
Clint _lost his mind._ He dropped his head to the bedspread next to hers, all but sobbing at the wave of emotion and desire and need that filled him to his toes. His arms braced next to her body, shaking as though he was holding his bow at full draw for too long. She lay still under him, her hands coming to lie against the back of his neck, her voice making soft comforting noises, mixed laughter and joy that sounded like the trilling of a bird for real.  
   
Trembling, he pushed himself up and undid the buttons on the shirt, stripping it off and tugging it gently out from under her. Her body was as magnificent as he remembered: she had 'superhero' abs as the fitness magazines said these days, her torso lined with hard flat muscle that looked strong and womanly at the same time. Not one ounce of her obvious power detracted from the rich warm curves of her breasts, her hips, her graceful neck and long athletic legs. Natasha was undeniably more beautiful, a clean, classic beauty that astounded the eye. Bobbi looked like a fighter, a warrior: sturdy. Scarred. Solid. Sensual. Voluptuous. 

His hands, normally like living steel, became soft as silk, as though he might catch his bow-string bitten skin on the smooth plane of her body, marring its delicate weave. He made every scar, every bruise, every cut and contusion some talisman to be worshipped. The tips of his fingers traced whorls and swirls in her sweat. He noticed the temperature had gone up a little -- he preferred to sleep in a cool room--so they were both comfortable lying naked on the top of the sheets and blankets.  
   
_Thanks Jarvis,_ he muttered inside his head.  
   
She was touching him too, using her palms to caress his chest, his biceps. He grinned at her and flexed his left arm. She grabbed it with both hands, barely able to cling to the thick muscle, making an exaggerated moue of surprise. In return he dug his other hand into her buttocks, firm and hard, tilting her hips upwards as he kissed his way down to her groin. He used his tongue to nudge the lips of her labia apart, tasting salt and musk as he found her clit and sucked it hard. She convulsed under him, her hands digging into his shoulders (short stick-fighter nails, thankfully), a cry of wonder winging its way to the heavens.  
   
Clint found endless complex curves to enjoy with nose and tongue and fingers, up and down each limb, nuzzling her throat, along the lines of her ribs. The delicate skin at the inside of her elbow, soft against his mouth, making her shudder as he breathed hard across it. He made his way back to her lips often, using their peach-like texture, their honeyed sweetness, to distract him from how hard and tight his cock felt, as though he was about to split apart from need alone.  
   
He noticed she loved it when he bit her neck and she swiftly had a number of impressive hickeys. Her nipples were hard as little chips of stone but when he fondled her breasts she seemed indifferent--he stayed away from them save in passing until she grinned and laughed in his ear "It's okay, I know those are really for you after all". Then he gave himself permission to explore the tender skin underneath their weight, the roughness of her deep pink aureoles, the way they lead him to the edge of her ribcage and down to the elegant wave of her hip bone.  
   
She adored his hands with a nearly religious passion, her whole body thrumming and vibrating when he stroked her, teasing and tweaking. Her shrieked reaction to him burying two of his fingers inside her was nearly as satisfying as her mouth sliding down his cock.  
   
Nearly.  
   
Clint settled back down between her thighs, lapping and sucking, reveling in the taste and smell of her like he had in his dreams. She had different "hot spots" than he was used to and he was mapping them out in his head. He had no idea how long they had been making love--he was having so much fun he didn't care--but his body had stopped screaming at him and was now sharpening knives and threatening him with a gun unless he _got inside her right god damn now, buddy_. Still, he could hold them off, the legions of his needs. He'd always been good at denying himself.  
   
Pain. Blossoming from his left shoulder. Bobbi had punched him really really hard.  
   
"Ow!" He shot up onto his forearms. "The hell, little bird?"  
   
She was up on her elbows, staring at him with an expression half-way between glazed pleasure and agony. "Clint, I can't...this is amazing but...oh, gods, can I just _come_ already? Please! I can't take this much longer without screaming!"  
   
"Nat never hit me," he grumbled. Her eyes narrowed and she started to splutter. He snickered, cupping her with one hand and scooting up till they were kissing again. "S'okay. I deserved it. I'm happy to oblige but not...I want to see your face the first time. I need...I want to see your eyes when--"  
   
Her eyes opened wider, unfocussed but wild, her pupils enormous. "Oh, yes please," she murmured.  
   
He settled his big body between her legs and she reached down to guide him, spreading her thighs wider and hooking one foot into the small of his back.  
   
Their eyes locked and he wondered if he looked as awed and frightened and exultant as she did. More probably.  
   
He wanted to close his own eyes and throw his head back as he entered her for the first time, the slick sweet heat of her body engulfing him. But he didn't; he needed to be looking into her eyes at this moment. Somehow he found a reserve of will inside himself he'd never touched before and kept his first thrust slow and steady, an eternity passing before their hips met.  
   
He dropped his forehead against hers, both of them still wide-eyed and almost silent but for the sound of gasping, sobbing breaths in ragged unison.  He held himself just above her, her nipples sliding against his chest as her lungs heaved, her hands wrapping and tightening around his shoulders. He took one of her hands in his and slide it down their joined bodies, soaked with sweat, until they reached her clit. Laying his fingers over hers he smiled at her, nudging. She grinned and started to rub and he followed her rhythm for long enough that he could reproduce it anytime then closed his hand over hers, stopping her. 

They lay like that for a long time, kissing and breathing mouth to mouth. Clint was running through arrow trajectories in his head and barely managing to distract himself from the howling void that was his need when she bit his lower lip a little harder. Her voice was soft and sweet, puffing out against his chin.

"Clinton, this tantric stuff is wonderful, yes, but it's been rather a long time since I've...look, it's just that if you don't get busy and start riding me like a pony I'm going to break your spine."

Clint reared up over her, seeing a dreamy, blissful expression pasted onto her face but under that, deep in her eyes, a burgeoning violence that he'd learned to respect.

"As you wish," he whispered.

His hands came down to her hips, lifting and tilting as he settled himself into a position with good traction. He paused again, smiling at her. She reached up behind her and grabbed the tastefully elegant bars of the head board.

As he'd known, the instant he let his body go, let his hips pull out, he lost the ability to control himself anymore. She felt too good, too hot, too wet, too tight and close. He sobbed, his eyes still locked onto hers and heard her echo his need and pain. 

Her breasts were shaking with each thrust, hard and fast as his body could handle; she was right there with him, matching his rhythm, pulling him in, squeezing. She freed one hand, slipping it down between them, rubbing. He covered her fingers with his own again, needing to be part of every moment, needing to feel her with every millimeter of skin he could. 

Bobbi's head snapped back, then came forward again and so he watched her eyes turn darker as he felt her body start the heavy internal tugging of her orgasm.

She cried out, starting high and sweet and descending into a deep minor key. The noise shook his spine, he was so deep inside her and then his own pleasure crested. His smoothly thrusting hips broke their rhythm to push all the way against her as her spasmed and spent himself, his own orgasm transcendent.

Bobbi pulled him into her chest, forcing him to rest his weight on her as they lay there in the aftermath. He mumbled unintelligible words of love into her ear, his soul quivering with joy. She murmured back broken phrases of affection and wonder. In time he softened and slipped out of her, sighing. She shoved him a little until she could squirm out from under his weight and left the room for a moment, returning with a warm damp cloth, a bottle of sparkling water and a glass. She drank, refilled the glass and handed it to him, settling on the edge of the bed with one leg stretched out. Then she leaned over and started stroking at his groin with the cloth. It felt wonderful, though he was so supremely sated his cock didn't even twitch.

He felt a mellow lassitude settle over him and forced his eyes open. He was not spending one second of their first night together in a post-coital slump.

"So," Clint said between grateful gulps of water, "did you know you turn into Darth Vader when you come?"

Bobbi sat bolt upright and mimed a 'force choke' at him. "You have revealed my secret! I am the Queen of the Sith!" she yelled. 

Clint kept his composure enough to drop the empty glass next to the bed before he rolled onto his back, laughing hysterically.  
   
She landed on his legs with a _whump_ , carefully keeping her weight on her knees to either side. She grinned and bent downwards, nibbling along the edges of his ribs as though delicately stripping corn kernels from a cob. Clint convulsed, hiccuping and trying to push her away. She grabbed his hands, twining their fingers together and playfully wrestling him while her teeth nipped and lips kissed. 

_This is love_ , his heart whispered to him under his laughter. _Remember this: when passion and silliness lie side by side, when violence and joy hold hands in the darkness, when the world opens up around you, even as you long to never look away from their eyes. This is love._

Bobbi sensed his mood change and stopped toying with him, raising her head to stare down, a little worried, a little intrigued.  
   
"I love you, little bird," Clint said, bringing their clasped hands to her face. She leaned into his as though she were a puppy burrowing into a blanket. "No matter what happens in our lives, that will always be true. No matter how angry or scared you make me; no matter what stupid dangerous stuff we have to do. I will always love you."

"I don't love you, Clint," she said, smiling. He cocked an eyebrow at her, waiting for the punchline. "I went past 'love' somewhere last night, maybe at the baseball stadium. You've never once, in the time I've known you, treated me like an equal. You've always treated me like you never considered I _wasn't_ your equal. You made me whole, inside my head. If you think I'm letting you go after figuring that out--"

She kissed him then, her mouth gentle and strong, firm and light, like her hands on his body, her heart beating next to his. "I can't say love is the thing I feel for the other half of my soul."

Then she tickled her fingers down his ribs again, making him choke and twitch. "But, yeah, I love you too, my Hawk. I love your face and your hands and your gorgeous body and that sharp, dangerous brain you try to hide. I love you."

When they kissed again, deep and long, eyes closed, Clint fancied he could taste the future in their intermingled tears.

Whatever else, they tasted like forever.  
   
   
   
 


End file.
